Dark Horse
by Initial A
Summary: Emma moves back to town following the highly-publicized scandal that leaves Killian Jones as the new owner of the Huntsman's Horn Stables. She's determined to help pick up the pieces in the wake of the tragedy, even with the eyes of the racing world on Storybrooke Downs-and the eyes of the new trainer on her. (AU) (Ensemble cast) (Part 1 of the Storybrooke Downs series)
1. April 5, 2014

**A/N:** A brief thanks at the beginning to my beta, **idoltina**, for putting up with my inane questions and shortcomings, all while asking me if I'm SURE that all these horse-related words are real and that I'm not making them up. (they are) (I'm not)

There's not much actual horse racing in the story. Just lots of talk about horses.

* * *

><p>A sweet scent drifts through the air when Emma gets out of her car, one that hints of the summer to come. It mixes with the unmistakable scent of the stables, of hay and horses and polish for the irons. The morning mist is burning away as the sun climbs higher, promising a hot day for Maine in April. Hooves thunder down the track on the other side of the infield, and though she is still tense, a few of the knots in Emma's chest loosen.<p>

This is what home feels like.

Her heels click down the concrete, then the tile, and finally up the stairs. She nods at faces she knows—a little older, a little sadder, just like her—and enters her new domain. Screens and machines whir to life as Emma wakes the control room up. She steps out onto the observation deck, throws the windows open and watches as some of the horses are exercised. She's early, but she wanted these moments to herself, the peaceful time of day before the day-to-day business begins. She loves to watch them fly, long-buried memories of the wind in her hair resurfacing. A smile escapes her just as another bay breaks free of the gate.

The break room down the hall has coffee, and that's the only other thing she cares about at the moment. One of her cardinal rules—_no drinks near the switcher_—is tossed out the window as she re-familiarizes herself with the panel and the rows of intimidating buttons. It's unnecessary, tasks she's done a thousand times before, but the whole show rides on her not screwing everything up when it matters.

_Not like everything else._ It's almost overwhelming, darkness creeping in the edges of her awareness. She shuts it down and focuses on getting acquainted with everything.

Her phone buzzes a few times as the morning wears on, but Emma ignores it in favor of cursing Equibase or the computers freezing up on her. She should definitely talk to the owner about getting some updated equipment, what is this, 2004?

She jumps when a cheerful voice greets her, "Hi! You must be the new director."

_Directors do not curse in front of their co-workers_, she thinks, and plasters what she hopes isn't a forced grin on her face. "Hi. Yeah, I'm Emma Swan, nice to meet you."

The woman, long brown hair liberally streaked with bright red (is she really that tall or is it just the shoes?) and lipstick to match, shakes the offered hand. "I'm Ruby Lucas, I'm your graphics tech. So, you're becoming friends with Arthur!" Confusion settles across her face, and Ruby laughs. She pets the switcher. "We call him Arthur. I wish I had a great story to go with it, but it's really just the first name Elsa said when he was throwing a fit one day and not doing a thing we asked, and it kind of stuck."

"I… see," she says, and she really doesn't, but she's the new girl and she supposes she should play nice for a while.

"Oh, you'll meet Elsa later, she's the sound tech. I come in super early, because—"

"—you have to be here when racing services call with changes, yeah I know," Emma finishes, and internally winces; that came out harsher than she intended.

Ruby doesn't seem fazed and just sits down in her chair, twirling a feathered pen between her fingers. "So you do know your way around here—we were wondering if we'd have to break you."

The woman's grin is wolfish, and the phone ringing right then likely saves Emma from a thorough interrogation. Ruby picks up to cheerfully talk to someone named Billy and take notes. It's fascinating to watch someone talk so animatedly while on the phone, and Emma hides her smile in her coffee cup. She fiddles with the controls to the remote cameras and grimaces at the state of the pictures. Ruby hangs up, and turns back to her computer. As she stands, Emma asks her to call one of the tower operators to take care of the one. "We have cleaning supplies in here, right?"

"Yeah, supply closet. Need help with the ladder?" Ruby asks, not looking up as her long nails clack away on the keyboard.

Emma glances at the ladder set out next to the wall, and then down at her platform stilettos. "Remind me to bring flip-flops or something to keep in here," she orders as she kicks her heels off.

"You got it, boss." Ruby's voice is amused as Emma pads out the door in her bare feet, cleaning bucket in one hand and an eight-foot ladder over the other.

-/-

He does _not _have time for this.

Killian crosses his arms over his chest, staring the young man down. Bluff's blinkers are missing, post time is in an hour, the season hasn't even _started_ and their odds are on the out, but the lad is digging his heels in and _bloody hell,_ Killian does not have time to argue about particulars and teenage stubbornness. "I groom them at home, what's so different here?" Henry argues

"Here is such a thing as rules and regulation. At home, we have my rules, and I don't give a shite about who takes care of what as long as it's done," Killian retorts. "Here, we have the commission, and they do give a shite. They rather like things to go their way, or they can get quite nasty with their punishments. And if you think after the fiasco of last season they'll let anyone associated with one owner near another's horses, then you've got another think coming."

He regrets his wording almost immediately as Henry's shoulders hunch forward and his face goes blank. "Fine." The lad stalks into Bluff's stall. Killian watches him for a moment, and when he hears Henry talking quietly, stalks out to the paddock himself.

There are Bluff's blinkers, laid out across his assigned stall. How they got there was a mystery for another day, when his mind wasn't clouded by a thousand other things.

So, in October, or something along those lines.

Killian swipes them down and leans against a post, taking deep breaths to calm down as he checks over the cloth carefully for splinters. The _last_ thing he needs is a distressed horse on opening day.

_This is the problem with overly familiar owners_, he thinks. He much prefers the way of things at home, where owners are safely shut up in the clubhouse and he is left in peace in paddock. Here, it seems he can't turn around without tripping over one of his employers. If it isn't an adult, it's the boy, who spends half his days mucking out stalls and luring whatever secrets he can out of anyone with knowledge to share. From what he has gathered, Henry has practically grown up in the shedrow and treats it as his own domain. Which, fine, it partly is, but everyone associated with the Horn is under scrutiny by the entire racing world at the moment, and the boy needs to understand that. _He's fifteen, he doesn't understand feck all._

A feminine grunt, followed by a wooden clatter, brings him out of his thoughts. Killian looks up and finds himself immediately glad he's already leaning against something. Perhaps Bluff kicked him in the skull when he was being led from the trailer last night, for surely he must be dead to be seeing visions of angels.

And then he calls himself seven kinds of eejit for having such wild fantasies, but he blames his upbringing. Give an Irishman enough time in his own fantasies (and perhaps a bit of whisky) and he believes all sorts of fairytales.

The woman—_angel? Check for own pulse later_—steadied her ladder and climbed, a look of determination on her face.

He's never been one to notice a woman's clothing, but something about it draws his eye down her form. The way her black skirt hugs her and the red shirt draping about her lovingly… he follows the delicate curve of her body all the way to the bare feet. A smile threatens, and he looks back up to her head, her blonde hair swaying with her movements.

She's vigorously cleaning a ball on a pole, and the ladder is wobbling with her movements, and some part of Killian's lizard brain awakens and tells him, _Eejit, go and steady it before she breaks herself._

-/-

"Need a hand?" a lilting male voice asks.

Emma glances back to see the source striding over to her. "I'm good, thanks," she tells him, and goes back to her task.

She rubs at the enviro-dome hard, and her stomach swoops in fear as she almost loses her balance. Her ladder steadies, and she looks down to see him grinning up at her. "Now see, a quick 'yes please' may have saved you a few hairs on your pretty head from going gray already," he tells her, the Irish treatment of his 'r's more prominent with the layer of honeyed-flirting he's added.

Emma rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to her work. "My hero," she drawls.

"Oh, she's tetchy," he says, and she can_ hear_ the grin.

"_She_ not only has a name, but _she's_ got a bottle of cleaning solution, and _she_ isn't afraid to dump it in your eyes, Irish, so back off," Emma snaps.

"And what is _her_ name?" he asks.

Emma ignores him, and studies her handiwork. She digs out her phone—_when did I get all these texts from David?_—and calls up to the control room to ask Ruby if she saw any other spots that needed cleaning. She's aware of the man's presence below, his gaze putting her on alert while she's on the phone, and then as she descends. She refuses to think about the last time the paddock was properly cleaned as her bare feet hit the ground. "Thanks," she tells the man shortly as she folds the ladder back up.

It sits heavy on her shoulder; the rag and bottle hang in her other hand. "You sure you've got that, lass?" the man asks.

Emma turns slightly to give him what-for, and stops when she finally gets a good look at him.

Something about him gets under her skin, in every sense of the phrase. For starters, there's something familiar about him. She's good with names and faces, and it's annoying that she's not able to place the astonishingly handsome face with the too-blue eyes and the five o'clock shadow, or the black hair that looks like he's been doing some of his own flying that morning. He's too tall, and from the way he fills out his faded t-shirt, too heavy to be a jockey, so she figures he's an exerciser, or perhaps an involved groom. He has an easy way about him, coupled with a sense of self-assuredness that explains the flirtation. Her guard goes up as she looks him over—she's known too many men with that air, knows all of their tricks. "I've got it," she says.

She always has it.

-/-

After a quick foot scrub in the bathroom sink—and it's seriously no joke, trying to wash one foot while balancing with the other on a six-inch spindle—Emma meets her other co-workers. Elsa initially comes off as demure, but when the judges call about equipment not working, Emma is surprised at how fired up the other woman gets about their subpar manners and ham-handedness. The two in-house cameramen are old, familiar faces: Jefferson and Victor, who greet her warmly with hugs and condolences. Emma brushes the latter off; it's over, has been for a long time, and she doesn't let on that her bruised ego and heart appreciate the sentiment anyway. She is also surprised that Victor gives Ruby a kiss (has she really been gone that long?)

"Two minutes to showtime, folks," Emma says, slipping on her headset.

Another familiar voice crackles in her earpiece. "Emma Swan, is that you?"

There's a fraction of a second before the voice registers in her brain. "Well, if it isn't Sean Herman, all grown up," she teases. "How's Ashley, and the baby?"

"Not a baby anymore, she's in second grade."

Emma gapes, no matter that Sean can't see her reaction, and then the loudspeaker crackles to life with welcomes and information, and the broadcast team shifts their focus to their work.

There are a few slipups as the team shakes off the cobwebs of the offseason: some missed shots, tracking the wrong rider, computer errors that aren't anyone's fault. Inside, she's frazzled and panicky, the thought of some bigwig barging down into her territory to rip into all of them resurfacing after every mistake, but Emma projects calm to everyone. She made a promise to herself years ago, after one bad manager, to never be the kind of blowhard boss that made everyone edgy and sullen. "Good race, everyone," she says as Elsa starts replays of the fourth. "Sean, next time let's try a wider shot and we'll see how it looks if we get the full field as they round the back quarter."

"You got it Emma."

Ruby seems to be absorbed in her phone at every turn, but no amount of pointed looks Emma shoots at her deter Ruby from doing whatever it is—Angry Birds? Twitter? Surely there's nothing worth Instagramming in here. But when it counts, she's paying attention, and just as Emma opens her mouth to switch to the paddock camera, Ruby's nails clash against the keyboard again and she's wiggling the joystick into position. She catches Emma's eye and winks. "I know when I'm allowed to play, Mom."

Emma abruptly shuts her mouth, and ignores Elsa's quiet giggle behind her. She turns back to the screens. Elsa flips a switch, murmuring, "You're going to get frown lines if you keep scowling like that."

"I'm not scowling!"

She's totally scowling.

"I'll add 'skin serum' to the list of things to remind you about, boss."

Dammit.

Elsa scoops up Emma's coffee cup as she gets up and leaves, saying something about topping it off for her. Emma accepts distractedly, her scowl disappearing as she sees Henry come onto the screen, leading one of his mom's horses around the warm-up ring.

Her nerves flutter again; they haven't seen each other in person in years, only exchanging emails every couple of days. Regina had promised not to tell Henry she'd moved back to town. Emma wants it to be a surprise, probably the first good surprise the kid has had in the last couple of years. He looks good, handling the horse that's at least sixteen times his weight with ease, wearing the colors to show where he belongs. She isn't sure which horse he's leading and doesn't have a racing form to check. Regina was particular about her horses' appearances, but honestly, Emma could never keep them straight—they all look the same to her.

As the commentary begins, Emma finds herself listening for once. Demon's Bluff, the horse Henry is handling, is the favorite to win, so extra care is given to detail his training and care. She holds her breath as the commentary turns to his stabling, but nothing more is mentioned past the new owner and trainer of the Huntsman's Horn Stables, Killian Jones.

Ruby pans the camera across as Henry leads Bluff to his stall. The trainer is there, his black Stetson covering his face as he flicks through his iPad, the sleeves of his red flannel shirt rolled up against the heat of the day. The name, Killian Jones, rings a bell in Emma's mind—with how often she has fallen in and out of the racing world in the last thirteen years, it's not surprising that some names have stuck. But the trainer holds himself the way a young man does, and the faces she envisions from years ago are all older and weathered. Just before Ruby pans away, the trainer lifts his head and Emma's jaw drops as his face is revealed.

It's the man from the paddock.


	2. April 5

One million thanks again to **idoltina** for making this not sound like shite.

* * *

><p>It's not a statement she thinks very often, but Emma really regrets her choice of footwear as she walks down to the stables at the end of the day. Her heels slip and stick in the gravel, and she ends up walking on the balls of her feet for most of the hike, calling herself seven kinds of stupid and definitely <em>not<em> thinking about what David's reaction is going to be when he sees her in her Steve Maddens and pencil skirt. She makes a note in her phone to put some casual shoes in her car as she approaches the end of the path with trepidation. Or maybe she should just suck it up and wear the more casual wear all of her coworkers sported that day. She'd made her first impression, hadn't she?

She nods in greeting at the grooms and hands as she finally steps on solid ground; she asks a groom where the Shepherd's Point and Huntsman's Horn horses are being stabled, and she's in luck when they're on the same row. She hears David before she sees him, and grins when he says, "I think I hear…"

"Emma?!"

Henry's fifteen now, so she tries not to feel hurt when he doesn't throw himself at her, but he _does_ walk very quickly and hug her tight. Emma's arms go around him almost as tightly, willing the lump in her throat to vanish. "Hey, kid," she whispers, and rests her chin on his head—even in her shoes he's catching up to her in height. The weight of just _how much_ she's missed this kid crashes over her like a tidal wave, and she holds him tighter. "I'm sorry," she says softly.

"It's okay," he mumbles.

"No, it really isn't." Emma steps back, holding him by the shoulders and making him look up at her. "It's not okay, but I'm going to help make it that way again."

Now that she's able to properly look at him, she sees traces of the haunted eight-year old she'd been paired with so many years before. Her heart squeezes again, and he smiles, mostly for her but there's a trace of genuine gladness in it too. "Miss Swan," a stern voice says, snapping her out of her inspection, and Emma's blood runs cold for a moment.

Then it registers, and she relaxes upon seeing Regina. "Mrs. Hood," she says evenly, arching an eyebrow. "Still trying to scare the bejesus out of me."

"And doing quite well, I'd say," Regina says, and then gives her real smile, the one that never graces a courtroom. "As are you, it appears."

"All things considered," Emma replies.

Regina surprises her by embracing her briefly. Emma stiffens, and awkwardly hugs back. "Oh, um…"

"We missed you," she says, and Emma's bullshit detector doesn't even twinge.

David ruins the moment by slinging an arm around her and messing up her hair. "What's the point of you having a phone if you're never going to use it?"

"I do use it, just not to text stupid reminders like '_We'll be in the stables after_' or '_Mary's making pasta for dinner if you want some_', like I don't know your routine or recognize the smell of tomato sauce," Emma retorts.

"Emma, we just thought that maybe you'd make some new friends and go out to dinner with them," Mary Margaret says, leaning out of Snow's stall and waving.

"Yes, Mom, I played nice with the other kids, and no, I wasn't invited to dinner."

Emma glances over and sees that Henry's biting his lip to keep from laughing. The tension she's carried all day started to fade as she slips into this familiar pattern like an old, comfortable pair of boots.

Even after five years away, David and Mary Margaret are more than happy to have her back at the Point-which she knows is a strange way to think of it, when she had originally lived there longer than Mary Margaret. But it belongs to David now (and Mary Margaret) since his mother's death five years ago, just after Emma had left. Now, she even had her old room back, up in the renovated attic.

David was the closest thing she would ever have to a real brother. His family had taken her in when she was fifteen and given her a good home when she'd all but aged out of the system. He'd seen her at school, noticed her threadbare clothes, the shadows under her eyes, heard her story whispered in the halls. And as much as she'd pushed him away, he persisted. They'd had their ups and downs over the years, but she'd never regretted David's offer for her to move in with his family.

Then-because he was _David_-he brought Mary Margaret home from college in their junior year. Emma had never thought she'd meet anyone nicer than the Nolans, but was promptly proven wrong upon meeting the sweet-natured Mary Margaret. The elementary education major had somehow fit seamlessly into life on the farm-and after graduation, she'd moved in and never left.

That was six years ago. Now, David rings the expected peal over Emma's head for the impractical clothes she chose to wear to the stables—ignoring her protests that technically she'd been at work first and was suitably dressed for her primary intentions of the day—and Henry goes back to prepping Bluff for the ride home. Emma takes about two minutes of David's well-intentioned lecture before holding up a hand to stop him. As she's about to speak, she hears a familiar Irish drawl, "Dunno, mate, she certainly brings a level of _sophistication_ to the venue."

She turns, putting on her best dealing-with-smarmy-bastards face. "Killian Jones. It's nice to put a face to the name, or a refresher anyway."

His face has been in every major racing news outlet in three countries for four years now, and it's astounding she didn't recognize him sooner. Born and raised in Ireland, he'd made a name for himself amongst some of the most expensive and well-trained horseflesh in the world before packing his bags and heading Stateside. That had been three years ago. Once here, he drifted from stable to stable, turning some around completely or walking out on those he deemed hopeless. The longest he had stayed anywhere was eight months, and the bloodlines of the yearlings at that stable looked promising in the coming seasons. The hows or whys of him coming to put down some roots in Storybrooke, Maine have remained shrouded in mystery, one that most gossip rags would pay out the nose to discover. Killian Jones didn't _own_, he didn't _stay._

Emma kind of admires that about him.

The flannel shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the faded t-shirt she'd seen him in before—so clearly he was mugging for the camera—and the Stetson is pushed high on his head to show off the way crow's feet crinkled at the corners of his seriously blue eyes when he grinned. "So, you've heard of me," he says.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Anyone who keeps track of these things knows the name Killian Jones, and anyone with money tries to figure out the best way to buy his good fortune."

"What can I say, love?" He bends a bit, invading her personal space to look her in the eye better and wink—or maybe show off his _stupidly_ long eyelashes-_really_, all the money she paid in mascara and those are _natural_?—before baiting her with, "I'm very good at what I do. Care to see for yourself?"

There's no horse-sense at all in his tone, and she almost smiles. "Thanks but no. I'm not in your business."

He laughs, and damn if the sound doesn't make her warm. "Oh, lass, I'd do any sort of business with you."

"Minor over here," Henry calls from Bluff's stall.

"Don't tell me no one's given the boy the talk," Killian says as he glances at Regina.

Regina gracefully arches an eyebrow while Henry responds with, "They have. I just don't want to hear anyone _talking_ with my sister."

Emma delights in Killian's confused expression as his head swivels between herself, Regina, and Henry, and Emma takes full advantage of the moment to extract herself from his burning gaze and personal space. She puts David between them. "Henry, I thought we'd go out sometime this week, hang out and do… whatever teenagers do these days."

"Aptly put," David teases, and she swats at him.

Henry leads Bluff out of the stall, and Regina strokes the stallion's neck as Henry thinks. "Tomorrow's Sunday so… whatever you want to do."

Familiar tactic. Emma feels her work is cut out for her "Oh, no, kid. This is all you. Lunch, brunch, paintball fight in the woods. You name it."

"Breakfast and we'll see."

He starts to lead Bluff out to the trailer. Regina gives Emma a 'well-what-can-you-do' look as she follows, and Emma silently agrees. Henry's going to take some work. Mary Margaret is leading Snow Dancer out when Regina calls, "Mr. Jones, what the hell are we paying you for if my son has to load Bluff by himself?"

Emma almost laughs at the look Killian shoots them before hurrying after the Hood-Mills family. Mary Margaret strokes Snow's neck. "I don't know what I'm paying you for either," she teases David, "when I just took care of her all by myself."

Emma immediately catches the look on David's face and promptly sticks her fingers in her ears, singing, "_Lalala, I'll see you at home, lalalalalalala!_" as she flees.

She's almost reached the perilous gravel path again when she hears a quiet, commanding voice behind her. "Why, if it isn't Miss Emma Swan. How nice to see you again."

This time her blood really does run cold, but she forces herself to face him. "Mr. Gold. It's nice to see you too. Spinner ran well today."

He gives her the barest smile—it doesn't reach his eyes, it never does—and leaned on his cane as he shifted his weight to his good leg. "Aye, he did. A nice start to his last season, I can only hope he continues the trend."

She's tweaking for sure, but smiles in return—hers doesn't reach her eyes either, not anymore. Not to him. "You're retiring him?"

"One last season, and then he's going out to stud. He'll be happy enough. Lazing about all day, eating when he pleases, wooing my mares."

"I see."

There's an undercurrent here, one very unlike the one Killian had given her earlier. She doesn't want him to bring it up; she desperately can't talk about it with anyone-most of all him-but she holds her breath as he shifts his cane again. "But where are my manners," Mr. Gold says, flashing that not-a-smile. "You were on your way somewhere and I've held you up. It's good to see you so busy, Miss Swan. It certainly… explains much."

There it is. She gives him the same not-a-smile. "Yes. But you're right, I do have plans this evening."

"As you were, then. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other in the coming weeks of the meet."

She nods. "I'm sure we will."

Emma turns to go, and she's halfway out the door when he says, "I'll give your regards to my son, when he's allowed visitors."

It takes all of her self-control not to run up the gravel path to the parking lot, Steve Maddens or no.

* * *

><p>Killian's muscles ache after driving both Bluff and Spinner back to the farm, unloading them, and making sure the hands have gone through the feed and medication lists for all of their charges for the day. There's a pile of paperwork waiting for him in his office, but Killian knows his limits and he's had enough for the day. He'll just have to sacrifice some time in the ring in the morning for riding a desk instead.<p>

There's leftover pizza in the fridge and beer on top. It's not exactly what one might call a celebratory dinner—both horses placed today, which is a celebration in and of itself with everything else going on around the Horn—and yet it's enough. Killian practically collapses onto his couch, both of his cats side-eyeing him from the windowsill, and opens his Guinness. Though he's had his fill of noise from the track, he turns on the television against the deafening silence of the house. He leaves it on Animal Planet as he munches on his cold pizza.

Not an altogether horrible first day, all things considered. Where the lad had been overeager to help, his mother and the Gold man had been perfectly content to stay in the clubhouse for the duration. Gold made his nerves stand on pins; the less direct involvement that _particular_ owner had, the happier everyone would be. Killian wonders if it was his close connections with the incident that had occurred six months ago that made him so uneasy, or if it was something else.

He shakes his head. The deed was done, like it or not. Gold would be around, like it or not. And the lad…

The lad needed something.

Or perhaps some_one_, if the appearance of the angel—_Emma Swan_, he corrects himself. He has ears, of course he'd heard her name in a building where sound carried on the slightest breeze—and the lad's reaction to her had anything to say about it. Henry had claimed her as his sister, but he doubts it was by blood. Regina could hardly be more than ten years Emma's senior, and from what he'd gathered about her late husband over the last few months, Daniel had been around the same age. Killian grins. Henry is forever after secrets and tricks, perhaps it's time to turn the tables on him. The lovely Miss Swan was prickly, to be sure, but he'd eat his hat if her reaction to him in the stable wasn't fueled at least partially by attraction.

A knock at the door brings him out of his thoughts. Si and Am dart under the couch as he vacates it. One of the stable hands is there, cap in hand. "Mr. Jones, you said to come if Pride of War didn't eat, and—"

"He's colicky again, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, I'll be down in a minute. Call Dr. Lucas, she'll have to come give him a look."

"Yes, sir, right away."

Killian closes the door, and runs his fingers through his hair as he looks for his old boots. Never a moment's peace.

* * *

><p>Spaghetti night at the Nolans' usually involves a rain poncho. Emma's nephew, Leo, is a notoriously sloppy eater, something his mother (falsely) hoped kindergarten would have corrected by now. She makes sure to sit on the other side of the table from the kid, but it's a futile effort. In the end, David has to drag Leo upstairs for a post-dinner bath, while Emma and Mary Margaret wash not only the dishes, but some of the walls in the dining room as well. "Sorry," Mary Margaret says, grimacing. "We're really working on it, I promise…"<p>

"He's a kid. They act out," Emma tells her, scrubbing hard at the wall.

"It feels like it's becoming some kind of complex."

"Yeah, well, that's what child psychologists are for, right?"

Mary Margaret shakes her head and doesn't respond. Instead, she changes the subject. "So, we didn't exactly get to talk yet. How was your first day back?"

Emma side-eyes her as she grabs the stain remover. "Fine."

"Meet anyone nice?" she asks, her voice a little too innocent.

Emma's eyes strain with the effort it takes not to roll them. Instead, she says, "No one told me someone had finally gotten Victor to settle down."

Mary Margaret smiles. "Ruby has her charms."

"She's good," Emma says. "Elsa too. There's a good team there-I'm not even needed."

"Oh, Emma, of course you are."

Emma pauses in her work for a split second before resuming. There's another layer there, always was when it came to encouragements from her sister-in-law, and it acts like a balm on her soul every time. She might not believe them, but Mary Margaret's words were always a kindness. "Snow ran well."

"She did, didn't she?" Mary Margaret beams. "I was worried she might not do so well after all this year, but she held her own against all those young things. Fourth is a fine placement."

Mary Margaret has a thing for rescuing horses; each time, she and David manage to turn her strays around for the better. Snow Dancer had been abused by her previous owner, and given her age, hadn't been expected to turn around well enough to compete. Nine was youngish for a horse, but old for a racer. Emma has only seen a few of their miracles in person, but each time she sees her sister-in-law's name amongst the winners, a faint, glowing pride blooms in her. Emma bumps her with her shoulder. "Not bad for a city slicker," she teases.

Mary Margaret flicks some soapy water at her in response, and they finish in silence. Emma begins to think longingly of her pajamas and maybe vegging in front of the television for a while, though the responsible part of her says she should probably put on work clothes and help David and the hands turn down the stables for the night. As they go to clean up in the kitchen, Mary Margaret brightens. "Oh, I meant to ask. Have you met Killian Jones before? You seemed awfully familiar with each other."

There's_ definitely_ not heat in her face, that's for sure. Emma dumps the bucket down the sink, ducking her head so her hair shields her cheeks. "We… were acquainted in the paddock this morning, but nothing else."

"Oh. I just mean, the way he talked to you…"

"Oh, I know the way he talked to me," Emma grumbles, washing up.

There's an amused hum behind her, and Emma knows _exactly_ what Mary Margaret is thinking. "Do not even start," she says.

"I didn't say anything!" Mary Margaret laughs, joining her at the sink to wash.

"You didn't have to. I know you."

"All I was going to say is that he seems to be doing a fine job at the Horn," she says, innocence lacing her tone. "Regina hasn't complained, and you know how she can be about trainers. I don't know about any of the other owners, but no one has said a bad word to my ears. And Henry seems to be warming up to him as well."

That's good to hear. Emma shuts off the water, shaking droplets from her hands. "Speaking of, I should probably rest up if I'm hanging out with him tomorrow. Do you think they need a hand outside, or is it covered?"

Mary Margaret smiles at her kindly, tossing her a towel. "You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to here, Emma."

"And if I want to help down in the barn?" Emma raises an eyebrow.

"Then I'll direct you to the nearest pitchfork."

Emma flicks her sister-in-law with the towel, who laughs, and heads to the mud room for her shoes. "Then direct away."


	3. April 6

Sunday morning promises to play out similarly to Saturday, if the way Emma is wishing she'd swept her hair up says anything. She bounds up the short steps and rings the doorbell. She waits, envisioning having to tag team with Regina to drag the kid out of bed for their breakfast date—perhaps whacking him with his pillow a few times for good measure. She's kind of hoping Henry's ready to go already—it had been a hectic morning of toys and cereal everywhere at the Point, and Emma had forgone coffee in favor of saving her own skin. The door opens to reveal a man she doesn't recognize and Emma has to steel herself against backing up and checking to make sure it's the right house. His mussed hair, worn-out clothes, and the way he looked like she currently felt suggest he may have just come out of bed. "Hi…" Emma begins cautiously. "Is this… Does Henry Mills still live here?"

"Oh! Blimey, you must be Emma." Good Lord, he's English. "I'm so sorry, I forgot Regina said you were coming to collect Henry this morning. Come in, please."

Emma follows his wave in. This must be Regina's new husband, Robin—_new_ being the relative term. She remembers being told that they married three years ago. "And you must be Robin. It's nice to finally meet you," she says, sticking out her hand.

Her (admittedly limited) opinion of him rises several notches when he shakes it firmly. "Likewise. Henry talks about you a lot," he says. "He's still upstairs, I think, let me just…"

"Papa, can we have pancakes?" a young male voice calls.

There's a lot of noise on the stairs; Emma whirls in time to see a child leap the last three stairs and crash-land on the floor. The boy freezes at the sight of her. Robin sighs behind her. "And that would be my son, Roland, who _knows_ better than to jump off the stairs, right? Because doing so means he loses a sticker?"

"Yes, Papa," Roland says, contrite. "I'm sorry for jumping down the stairs."

"If you help with the breakfast dishes, you'll get your sticker point back," Robin says, and Roland sighs in acknowledgement. "Now, is Henry awake?"

"I dunno. Who is this lady?"

Emma crouches, smiling. "Hey, Roland. I'm Henry's Big Sister. It's nice to meet you."

Roland frowns thoughtfully as Robin quietly excuses himself to go upstairs. "Henry doesn't have a sister, he just has a mommy. And we share her, even though I got another mommy, too."

Emma smiles wider, realizing the mistake brought on by lack of caffeine. "I'm a different kind of sister. Henry helps you when you're having problems, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well," she says, shifting her weight, "he didn't have anyone to do that for him, so Regina asked me to do that. Your papa said he talks about me. Do you remember him saying anything about someone named 'Emma'?"

Roland's eyes grow rounder. "_You're_ his Emma?! He _always_ talks about his Emma, and I said I wanted an Emma too but Papa and Momma told me not everyone gets to have an Emma!"

Emma laughs. Robin lumbers downstairs again. "He'll be down in a bit," Robin says.

She nods in response, and Roland blurts out, "Wanna see my Transformers?"

Emma glances up at Robin, who nods. She allows Roland to grab her hand and drag her off into the den.

* * *

><p>Killian's phone buzzes, bringing him out of his training schedule haze. It's Henry, telling him he'll be in late that afternoon.<p>

Tossing the phone back on the desk, Killian leans back in his chair, stretching. He's been at all of this blasted paperwork since seven, and his muscles are jittery from immobility. He lets his head fall back, and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He didn't sleep well the previous night. This is not an unusual occurrence in his life—half the reason he worked so hard was to keep out the dreams—but it would be nice if his budding caffeine immunity would bugger off. _Then again_, he thinks as he turns and eyes the pile of unopened mail on the desk, _it kind of numbs a man from feeling much_.

The unopened mail is piled up to an almost ridiculous amount now, backed up almost six months. It's nothing pressing—everything's been set up to be automatically deposited or paid for—just things he couldn't bring himself to open.

It's very difficult to open a dead man's mail. Even if (or perhaps _especially because?_) you never knew him personally.

Half a year is enough, he reasons. The sooner he gets it over with, the sooner any lingering ghosts might leave the shedrow. He grabs at the pile, and begins ripping into the envelopes; all of them are addressed to 'Graham Humbert'.

As expected, most of it is junk. There are a few queries about taking on new clients, but Killian recognizes no names and figures if they were serious about it they would have called. He rips all of it into pieces as he goes and drops them into the bin with the kind of glee that only comes from cleaning up. There's a weight in his chest lifting, one he hadn't realized he was carrying. Perhaps Graham's ghost had been lingering all this time.

_And perhaps I've had a few too many whiskies in the pub to be thinking like that_, Killian scolds himself as the last of the ghost drops into the bin. He's on his feet in the next moment—he's done the week's training schedule and entries over the next few months, he deserves some time in the saddle. Or on the end of a long line. Whichever comes first.

* * *

><p>After spending twenty minutes being instructed in the correct way to stage an intergalactic robot war, Roland begging Henry to join in with his best Grimlock impression, and Robin finally intervening with the lure of pancakes, Emma and Henry escape the house for their own breakfast. Henry expresses surprise at her new ride ("The old Bug just got too expensive to maintain, kid." "But the new ones are so <em>ugly<em>, Emma.") and she grills him about school on the ride over to their favorite diner.

There are familiar faces everywhere. Better, their favored booth is free. Henry slips in, and the waitress is prompt in bringing water and asking Emma about coffee. Emma slides into her seat with an affirmative as the waitress obliges her. "Is it too hot for cocoa?" Henry asks after the waitress leaves with drink orders to let them to look at the menus.

Emma sips at her coffee; she also has cocoa coming, but caffeine first. She eyes him over the rim of her mug. "I have definitely been out of town too long if you're asking me that."

Henry's grin is shameless. He pours over the menu. "How many waffles you think I can eat at once?" He asks.

"With a side or not?"

"With."

Emma regards him for a moment. She privately wonders if he still has ambitions for jockey school, but at the same time doesn't want to encourage bad habits. She's seen her fair share of jocks getting carted off to eating disorder rehab. "Three."

They order, and all during breakfast Emma carefully keeps their conversation away from anything horse-related. She knows Henry loves them and wants to work with them in some way when he gets older, but Emma is a firm believer in making sure Henry is a well-rounded kid. Regina agreed, back when they'd been paired in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. A few hours every day away from the stables and focused on another hobby or at least his growing piles of schoolwork did him a lot of good.

Henry fills her in on finer details of his life. They've kept up through sporadic emails and phone calls over the last five years, but haven't had a face-to-face conversation since she left. Guilt bites at her about it as he talks about Roland and Robin—he's told her before about adjusting to a new stepfather and stepbrother, but it's different to talk about it in person. Emma reads body language well, and she can pinpoint where he's uncomfortable or having issues, where language in an email or a voice on the phone is less easy to spot.

He also avoids talking about the other big change in his life, which is ultimately the reason why she came back.

Emma isn't particularly looking forward to discussing how the murder of Graham has affected him. (She isn't looking forward to thinking about how it has affected her either, but she's able to compartmentalize that.) She'd seen it on his face the day before, and hints of it there today, but she's waiting for him to bring it up. First rule of child psychology (which is not an area she's an expert in, but coupled with her own crappy childhood, she's had a crash course or two) is not to force an issue. Henry would talk about it in his own time if she just gave him the safe space to do so.

Instead, he tells her about the newest video game he's working through as she pays and they head back to the car. "I'm just figuring out which character I should romance, Dorian or Josephine, because—"

Emma side-eyes him. "And your mother is buying you these games with full knowledge of what goes on in them?"

She can practically hear him roll his eyes. Damn, kid had picked up on her habits too quickly. "They don't _show_ anything. Okay, they _do_ show the girls'—"

"But Regina knows what she's buying you?" Emma interrupts, not wanting to hear him say the word 'boobs'.

"_Yes_, Emma, she knows. She's not _entirely_ happy about it, but as long as Roland doesn't see, she said I'm allowed."

Emma hems in annoyance, but doesn't say anything further on the subject. "So, what do you want to do now?"

He buckles his seatbelt. "Can we go to the beach?"

"Henry, the ocean's like twelve degrees."

He gives her a look in response, and she cracks a smile. "Fine. But if you want to go swimming, you get to explain to your mother why you have hypothermia."

He rolls his eyes, and she drives. He's quiet on the way, watching the woods melt into the Maine coastline. Emma glances at him now and again, seeing the shadow coming back. She can't get to the public beach fast enough.

It's deserted—of course it is; no matter how sunny it is, it's still April. Henry leaves his shoes and socks in the car; Emma brings out her emergency flip-flops. _Might leave a pair in the car and the office_, she muses as they walk onto the sand.

Henry does let the waves break over his feet, hollering the whole time from the cold; Emma laughs as he dances away from the rushing water. They start walking down the beach, looking for anything interesting washed up on the shoreline. She doesn't say anything, sensing he's trying to find the right words, and points out seashells or egg sacs instead.

They are about half a mile away from the car when Henry sits down on the sand, digging into it with some driftwood. "Did you know he was gonna do it?" he asks finally.

Emma closes her eyes for a moment. Of course the first question he asks is the one she's dreading the most. She sits down next to him, ditching her flip-flops to dig her toes into the sand. "No," she answers, and she feels him relax next to her. "But I knew he would do something, someday. I didn't know what, or how far he'd go. But I knew something was going to happen."

"And that's why you left."

He sounds so dejected. There's years of unsaid words, unsaid feelings between them. She's pretty sure there are not enough words in the world to explain why she'd gone; why she'd left him when she'd all but promised she wouldn't. But she also had promised him that she'd never lie to him, and she has yet to break her streak. "Yeah. I left because of him."

"Did he want to hurt you? Back then?"

"No. Not then, I don't think."

"Do you think he got worse because you left?" Henry wants to know. "Because Mom says the evidence goes back a long time, but it got worse after you left."

Emma's heart is breaking all over again, like the day she got the phone call about Graham being found in the stables with a broken neck, or when she'd been interviewed for the witness stand but deemed to have too little or outdated information to present in court. Of course Regina found out everything she could. Even if she hadn't been a lawyer involved in the case, she had probably been a witness in the trial. Emma stares out at the waves crashing into the breakwater. "I don't know."

She's still being honest with him. She doesn't know if she was ever Neal's moral compass. She doesn't know if leaving him had driven him over the edge, or if he'd been heading that way before she'd gotten out. She doesn't know how she could have done anything differently, if anything could have been stopped, if anyone's lives could have avoided this much heartache.

And sometimes, not knowing the truth is worse than being completely certain of it.

* * *

><p>The sun is warm on his back, and all Killian wants to do is throw himself in the horse trough. But he loves his charges too much to poison them with himself, and satisfies his urge by doffing his hat and dumping half his water bottle over his head, letting the cool water roll down his neck and settle into the cloth of his shirt. "I hope you're charging for this," a female voice calls.<p>

His head swivels in the direction the voice came from, and his heart skips a beat. He frowns slightly at that, filing that thought away to think about later, and hails Henry and Emma Swan as they come up the drive. He's amused to note that Emma's cheeks are pink—or perhaps she, too, is affected by the heat. He put his hat back on, slipping into an easy flirtation as they come to lean against the fence. "I have to attract clients somehow, Miss Swan. I'm not above playing to one's baser needs."

Henry rolls his eyes. "Okay, if I'm not allowed to talk about romancing anyone in Dragon Age…"

Killian chuckles as Emma grabs the lad in a headlock, ruffling his hair. Henry shrugs her off, fighting to hide a smile. It appears that Killian's thoughts the night before were correct: Henry looks less haunted today, reflecting how Killian feels after tackling his unpleasant chore that morning. "Blackheart has been pining for you, lad," he tells the boy.

"Can I take him around the oval?" Henry asks, eyes hopeful.

Killian hesitates. Blackheart can be spirited even for _him_ to handle. But the stallion belongs to the boy's mother, and he _does_ know what he's doing—most of the time. Henry pouts a little more, and Killian resolves to have a word with him about age and proper begging procedure. "Fine. But stay off the backstretch and the far turn."

Henry whoops and trots off towards the stable. Emma sighs and pushes off the fence. "Well, if he's off to work, I should leave him to it."

"Not a rider, Miss Swan?" Killian asks.

She flashes him a smirk. Her hazel eyes are almost sultry as she regards him, warming him in ways the sun never could, and she says, "I'm no stranger to a saddle _or_ the track, Mr. Jones."

It sounds like a challenge, with a hint of a warning. He grins slowly, deciding that he rather likes the prickly Emma Swan. She's lovely to look at, to be sure—and stirs him in ways he hasn't felt in a very long time—but he likes anyone who can keep him on his toes. "That sounds like an invitation, love."

Her eyebrow twitches. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Killian wonders how quickly he can make her twitch again. "I might. But in all fairness, I can't assess your skills without observing your form first. Now, I like long legs on a lady as well as the next lad, me, but to scrunch yourself up in the irons like that…" He shrugs.

There it is. He smirks. She huffs at him. "There's all kinds of ways to ride, Jones."

_Sure, and it's a cold shower for me this night_, he thinks. He has a brief vision of wild golden hair swaying above him, her lovely face alight in ecstasy. "How is it," he asks, casually leaning on the fence in her absence, "we always get back to this point?"

He almost laughs at the expression on her face, as if she's not sure whether to be amused or annoyed with him—or perhaps herself as she realizes her mistake in words. "I have a feeling you're about to tell me, but you can keep it to yourself. I should be getting back to _my _Point."

"May I remind you that _you_ started this today, Swan?" he calls after her as she goes.

"Good_bye_, Mr. Jones."

* * *

><p>His chuckle follows Emma up the driveway, simultaneously warming her and sending goosebumps rippling down her skin. <em>He's not <em>that_ attractive_, she tells herself. So what gives?

Okay, so seeing him pour his water bottle over himself like he was in his own GQ: Cowboy Edition photo shoot or something was more than a little hot, and he seems to know how to turn a conversation dirty in zero-point-two seconds flat. She doesn't deny that there's some chemistry sizzling between them—Jesus, three conversations and he's already peppered multiple innuendos throughout two of them. She's just got Henry and her job and her family right now.

She rests her head on her steering wheel for a moment. Killian Jones owns the Horn now. The rest of her conversation with Henry earlier about Graham's murder, her ex-boyfriend's subsequent arrest, and the fallout in their lives echoes in her mind. Just coming to the Huntsman's Horn once has unsteadied her nerves. She and Graham hadn't been close, but they'd been friendly. And Neal…

She sighs and starts the car. She can't imagine how Henry has kept coming back day after day.

Killian's face swims to the forefront of her mind, and she smirks to herself.

Okay, maybe she could see it a little.


	4. April 6-10

**Note: -/- indicates a POV change, while the big dashes indicate change in time during a POV in this chapter. Also, idoltina is the best.**

* * *

><p>Henry has good form in the saddle. He doesn't bounce, he rides exactly like one should-as if the horse were an extension of himself. <em>He's had good teachers<em>, Killian thinks as he watches from the rail. _If he's serious about the schooling, he'll do well. _Henry flies by again on Blackheart. Shade paws at the dirt as she, too, watches, and Killian idly pats her nose to calm her. Henry circles Blackheart around again and waves. "Can we time my next run?" he calls. "He feels faster today."

Killian clicks his tongue and Shade stills enough for him to mount up and head into the circle. "You can time it yourself, lad. You know the rules."

Henry sighs dramatically, and Killian bites back a grin. He definitely _hopes_ the boy goes for his jockey license-if only because Killian can finally clock Henry for all of the official paperwork and stop the theatrics. Workout rules are there for a reason, but far be it from fifteen-year old boys to accept them willingly. "_Fine_," the boy says. "Can we race, then?"

"Why else did I go through all this trouble?" Killian gestures to Shade's tack. "Let me warm up, meet you in the chute."

Killian takes Shade around the far side of the oval, his muscles protesting as they ease back into form. _There's nothing quite like the feeling of twelve hundred pounds of horse cantering under a person_, he thinks as Shade turns into the stretch. It's just himself and the rush of the wind in his ears and the jolt of hitting the ground before taking off again… and it's exhilarating.

Blackheart fidgets as Killian canters up to the chute. "I always feel like he knows a race is coming, even when we're just having fun," Henry says. "Watching you come up, it felt like he knew."

"Aye, lad, they're born to it. They can smell competition," Killian says, only slightly teasing. "You think you're up for a full mile?"

Henry considers it. "Blackheart's broken in, but you'll slow Shade down…"

Killian exaggerates a scoff at the the implication. The lad must be feeling better if he's starting to mouth off. "Are you insulting my girlish figure, boy?"

Henry grins and wheels Blackheart around. "Come on, old man," he challenges.

They meet at the pole, and Henry counts them down. At the one, both kick their horses into a full gallop. It's only ninety seconds from end to end, but everything in the world slows down for those ninety seconds. Killian can only hear the breath he labors to take in against the wind. The rush of blood and adrenaline in his ears blocks out even the thunder of eight hooves slapping the ground at sixty-five kilometres per hour and his vibrating bones are the only reminder that he is _not _made of air and wind and flight.

Birds can keep their wings. This is the only way to fly.

It's ninety seconds from end to end, and they match pace every step of the way, but at eighty-five Blackheart goes soaring ahead. The sound returns and Henry whoops with joy, standing higher in the irons, raising his fist in victory. Killian begins to laugh, and reins Shade in as they cross the line. "Well done, lad!"

Henry twists to look behind him, grinning, but the grin turns to shock as his left foot slips from the stirrup. Killian yanks up to a full halt as Henry falls, landing in the dirt with a yelp; Shade rears, unhappy with his treatment of her, and Killian fights her to settle, sliding off at the first opportunity. She trots away to join Blackheart around the bend as Killian runs over to where Henry lay. "Lad! Henry, are you alright?"

His heart races-_please no, please be alright_-until Henry rolls over, coughing. "Holy shit," the boy manages, and Killian starts to laugh again-out of fear or relief, he's not sure.

He kneels in the dirt, helping the boy sit up. "Let's not tell your mother about that in our report," Killian says.

"What, me falling or me swearing?" Henry asks, and Killian laughs again.

"The latter. She'll wonder if I'm horsewhipping you if you come home with the bruises I know you're getting."

Henry shrugs and checks himself. He landed his side, so his hip will be one enormous bruise come tomorrow, but his color is returning and there's no outward sign of anything broken. Killian breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Henry flashes a quick grin. "I'm good. But…" His face falls, and a surge of fear overwhelms Killian momentarily. "Don't tell Emma, okay? You can tell my mom, but just… don't mention this to Emma."

Killian raises an eyebrow and helps Henry to his feet. "Come on, let's find where our charges have run off to."

It's easier to hop the fence and catch up with the horses, and it's been dry lately so the infield isn't made of mud. Killian punctuates their trek with the thought that's been bothering him since yesterday: "You said Miss Swan was your sister. You'll forgive me for having to call bullshit on the matter."

Henry snickers. "She is, though. There's this program-Big Brothers Big Sisters-and my mom enrolled me after my dad died. I was eight then. Emma was my match."

"Ah."

"Usually they only do same sex matches, but I guess there weren't enough guys or something, so I got stuck with Emma. She turned out to be pretty cool, though. She helped me out a lot, even after she left."

Killian suspects there's a little more under that statement, but it's not his place to pry. Henry climbs over the decorative rocks in the middle of the infield. "She just… she worries. About me. Like, a lot. So I don't want her to know-even if everything is okay-because she'll worry anyway."

The lad jumps down, proving how fit he really was-or denying how much the impact must have hurt, either one a macho show for no one's benefit but his own. "Sounds like you have two mams then," Killian comments.

"Feels like it sometimes… but Emma's a cooler version of a mom, I guess. So she really is just a big sister to me," Henry says with a grin.

They duck under the fence, where Blackheart and Shade are chasing one another in some horse game of tag. Killian and Henry work to calm them down, corralling them and finally looping the reins around their hands to bring them back for a grooming. "Henry," Killian says as they come into the stables, "if she truly cares about you, she'd want to know."

Henry looks back at him as he leads Blackheart to the cross ties. "I know," he says, hooking on the clips and uncinching the saddle. "But sometimes it feels like I'm the only person she really worries about, and maybe I should let her worry about someone else for a change."

Killian's brow furrows in contemplation. He's seen that in their interactions, however limited his exposure has been. He's seen it in the way Emma's hands are careful and strong and sure, the way her gaze lingers too long when Henry walks away from her and she loses that abrasive, acidic armor she puts up around Killian. He's not sure how long it's been since they've seen each other last-not his place to ask, not Henry's job to tell him. Half a year (at least) is an eternity to a fifteen-year old, and it occurs to Killian, now, that in the wake of the recent scandal and loss, the lethal combination of time and tragedy might result in the same for a woman Emma's age.

_But perhaps_, he thinks, _cygnets are more willing to stand up and try again than Swans_.

-/-

Emma should really have learned by now that weeks that simultaneously fly and crawl by will lead to no good.

In addition to changing up her work wardrobe to be more all-terrain, she stashes a pair of emergency flip-flops under her desk. She also ignores the smirk Ruby wears while Emma does this, as well as the pointed neutral expression on Elsa's face while she compresses data on her computer-abso_lutely_ not looking at what Emma is doing, nope. Monday and Tuesday go by smoothly, as everyone on her team has the kinks worked out from opening day. At the end of the day on Tuesday, Ruby suggests that, as they have Wednesday off, they go out after work for a celebratory drink. "Just us girls," she says with a wink when Victor starts naming off local watering holes. Her boyfriend looks wounded, and Emma and Elsa have to look away from each other else they burst out laughing.

Emma hasn't been out with "just us girls" in a very, very long time. She's never sure if it's just her or if it's the nature of the field she's in, but having both Ruby and Elsa at the helm with her means more regular contact with women than she's had in several years. If there were drinks to be had after work, Emma always filled the role of 'another one of the guys'. So when she texts Mary Margaret a quick '_going for drinks, count me out for dinner_', she does so with not an inconsequential amount of anticipation.

Mary Margaret replies with the happiest of emojis, no less than three party poppers, and the… one that was a disco ball that showered confetti? Emma shakes her head and puts her phone away as she follows Elsa and Ruby down the stairs. Her sister-in-law definitely needed something else to take up her time if she still had enough energy-after teaching all day, taking care of Leo, and helping David around the farm?-to be that concerned about her social life.

Still. It _was_ kind of nice to have someone be _that_ excited about the prospect of Emma making friends.

Drinks turn into food that isn't just fried bar fare-though there's plenty of that too. Ruby makes herself right at home and steals half of Emma's chili-cheese fries. When asked if she'd like her own (Emma definitely isn't brandishing her fork as a weapon at this point), Ruby just grins, dodges Emma's attempts at defending her food, and steals another. "I'm good."

The third round of drinks also brings Elsa fully out of her shell, in the form of dragging both Emma and Ruby up to the karaoke machine. Emma is steadfastly against singing in public, buzzed or not, but her attempts at sneaking back to their table are thwarted repeatedly-ending up with Elsa's arm firmly around her waist and Ruby holding her hand while both of them insist on singing their way through most of The Supremes discography. Emma mumbles for most of it, until Elsa selects the next two songs. "You dirty cheater," she says as one of her favorite strains of music pump through the speakers.

Elsa hip-checks her as she starts the first stanza of "Stop! In the Name of Love". _Oh, what the hell_, Emma thinks. There's only about seven other people in the joint, she might as well. She grabs what's left of her drink, downs it, and joins in.

* * *

><p>"Shit," Emma says as the three women sit against her car, Elsa's head on her shoulder.<p>

"S'not my fault you're lightweights," Ruby mumbles, her head in Elsa's lap.

Three rounds of drinks had turned into five. Ruby had conned a few more freebies for all of them as the night wore on, and they'd only just managed to stop her from turning full Coyote Ugly as the bar filled up. It was then that Emma and Elsa agreed it was time to go home. Unfortunately, by then all of them had drunk so much that they'd forgotten the necessity of a designated driver-particularly since Emma hadn't planned on getting this drunk. This led to a smug phone call with her brother, and now that they were waiting, they'd all had a chance to sit and process the alcohol in their bodies. Ruby was the worst off, but the others weren't far behind.

_David_, Emma thinks woozily, _is going to be insufferable about this hangover in the morning_.

Her brother's no stranger to a drink, but his true passion lay in rubbing salt in the wounds of others-because he's _David_ and David doesn't get hangovers.

He's _really_ lucky she likes him.

Ruby groans and tucks herself further into a ball; Elsa smooths her hair soothingly. "Please tell me you aren't going to be sick, I like these shoes."

"No promises…"

Emma leans her head against Elsa's, willing the dizziness to pass. "How long ago did I call?"

"Million years ago," Ruby mumbles.

"We could have saved time and called your boyfriend, instead of waiting for Prince Charming to ride all the way out from the hinterlands for a dashing rescue," Elsa scolds.

Emma makes a mental note to be impressed at Elsa's drunk-vocabulary when her head isn't spinning. Meanwhile, Ruby flicks her the evil eye. "F'you think Victor's any better'n me right now, y'don't know him. The hell is a 'hinterland' 'nyway?"

The entire situation clicks in her head, the ridiculousness of it all, and Emma starts to laugh. She hasn't even been home a full week, and here she is: a grown woman sitting next to her car with two of her coworkers outside of a bar, drunk on a Tuesday night. Ruby groans and fails to cover her ears properly. "No loud noises!" she whines as Elsa catches the giggles too.

"This is so stupid," Emma says between laughter.

When David and one of the overnight farm hands pull up in his old pickup a few minutes later, they find Emma and Elsa sprawled on the pavement, crying with laughter. Only Ruby notices their arrival, as she's propped up against the Bug and torn between laughing with them and yelling at them to be quiet.

The next morning finds Emma, Elsa, and Ruby draped over one another on the fold-out couch in the living room. They're rudely awakened around nine in the morning by David; Emma resolves to either beat him with the airhorn someone had mistakenly thought was a good idea to give to him or shove it up his ass.

Whenever her head stopped spinning, that is.

* * *

><p>On Thursday, Ruby comes in and hands Emma the mail that's been piling up in the media mailbox. She hadn't known such a thing existed, but she couldn't be bothered to fuss with it for the moment: they'd had a brownout overnight and most of her switcher functions were glitching.<p>

It wasn't until she gets home and empties her purse that Emma remembers the stack of mail to go through. She sets up shop next to Leo and lets him destroy the junk mail while David gets the pizza ready-really, it's just takeout, but he's _David_ and likes to present the illusion. There's a pizza tray stand and everything. It's ridiculous.

Emma pauses at one envelope; the thickness betrays its importance, and she opens it carefully. It's an invitation. "What the fff-heeeeeck is this?" she asks, quickly censoring herself in front of her nephew. She'll let the stable hands teach Leo to swear; she's not going to risk getting on Mary Margaret's bad side.

David walks in with the pizza stand. "What's what?"

She hears the back door slam open and close, boots being hastily kicked off, and Mary Margaret's voice calling, "I'm coming, hang on!" as the water starts running-riding class is finished.

"What's this about some kind of… party?" Emma asks, brandishing the invitation.

Mary Margaret rushes in, throwing the dish towel down next to her as she sits with a gusty sigh. "Made it. Okay. What's the question?"

David kisses the top of his wife's head before dropping a slice of pizza on her plate. "Emma seems to be uninformed about the soiree next weekend."

She sets everything aside as David serves her, and then Leo-she's sitting next to him, so she gets to cut up the slice to five-year-old eating standards. Mary Margaret glances at the torn paper mess and raises an eyebrow in a challenge. "I'll clean it up," Emma says hastily. "What _soiree_," the word cannot possibly escape her with more sarcasm, "is happening that they have to break out the engravers?"

"It's something they started a little while back," Mary Margaret explains. "It's a bit of a get-together, lets everyone who will be working together over the course of the meet get to know one another on a more personal level. It's fun."

The invitation is professionally engraved, and the words "black-tie event" are on it. Emma doesn't need to know that more than half of the owners, and quite a few of the trainers, in the meet are rolling in it to suspect this is a little above her station in life. And just because the Point is a modest-_looking_ farm doesn't mean she isn't well-aware that David isn't hurting for cash either. "Are they sure they want the media crew there?" she asks, finishing fixing Leo's plate and moving on to her own dinner.

Mary Margaret fidgets. David answers instead. "I think, on the stand side of things, it might just be the heads of department. I don't recall seeing the others there last year, but something may have come up."

Emma's eyebrow twitches. _Great, I _really _want to spend my Sunday evening surrounded by snobby rich people_, she thinks. Aloud, she cautiously maneuvers the conversation into risky territory. "Doesn't really sound like my kind of thing."

As she suspected, Mary Margaret's expression falls just short of devastation. "Oh, Emma, don't be like that! It'll be fun, I promise!"

Emma eyes her skeptically. David talks around a mouthful of pizza, "Well… not _fun_, exactly," he says, swallowing, and Emma remembers where Leo gets his stellar table manners from, "but it's nice to catch up with everyone in a way that doesn't involve taking most of their money." Emma smiles weakly at his joke. "And you'll know or remember most everyone there."

"That's kind of what I'm afraid of," she mumbles, and she takes a huge bite to prevent herself from saying anything further.

She misses the look they exchange.

-/-

"Aye, and it's a cold day in hell you'll have me strung up by me own tie to be poked and sneered at by the gentry," Killian snaps. He's entirely too working class to feel comfortable with this banquet the track is throwing, and just because Regina is paying him to keep the money flowing into her pocket doesn't mean she's also paying him to be a performing monkey.

She's undeterred. It's Friday, and he should be at the track with Malcolm and Gold's entries, but there's too much work to be done around the farm. He's sent his top assistant Will instead. Regina had come up to the house after her own work hours to discuss breeding options for Heart, and somehow the banquet next weekend had come up for discussion. Killian still isn't sure how they'd gotten there.

She's made herself quite at home in his house-drinking his brandy and treating the recliner like a throne-and his traitor cats have taken a shine to his boss. Si has draped herself across Regina's shoulders, and if they couldn't hear Am purring away on her lap back in Ireland, he'd eat his riding crop. "Mr. Jones, we run in a very small circle around these parts," Regina says. "But this circle is connected to others. Better ones. An idiot turns his nose up at this kind of opportunity. If you want good references and connections for when you decide to pick up your bags and hit the road again, the smart man would ask how to do up his tie properly for a hanging and smile his thanks through any insults that are thrown his way."

Killian grinds his teeth together and takes another swig of his own brandy. Regina continues, "But, seeing as how you're one of the most sought-after trainers in the country right now, I personally don't see why you have anything to fear. It'll be all gilded promises and fat stacks of cash for you."

_Socializing with the nobles_, he thinks bitterly. He can hear his brother taking the piss out of him now, not to mention all the folks back home who'd thought he'd never make anything of himself.

He thinks of what old Mr. McCloud would say, slumped over the bar in the village pub with a half-drunk bottle of Jameson-he died years back, but the old man's bite (real or imagined) stings as bad now as it did when he was twelve. "_Oh, you think you're so great now, aye? Well you're _nothing_, boy, remember that, you started off shoveling dung and that's where you'll stay."_

Killian focuses his attention back on his employer. "And how fired am I if I refuse anyway?"

Regina shrugs. "It's hardly worth my time to pick up and move three Thoroughbreds, let alone find someone else to train them who isn't also invested. I can hardly have Nolan doing it, can I?" She grins and there's no warmth to it. "It's as I said, Mr. Jones. This is networking and mingling." She takes one more sip out of her glass of brandy, and carefully untangles herself from his cats. "Are you a smart man, or are you an idiot?"

Killian watches her without hiding his irritation. "You wouldn't have allowed me to buy the farm if I were an idiot, Mrs. Hood," he tells her retreating back.

She pauses at the door, and glances over her shoulder at him. She's sin wrapped in a self-satisfied smirk. "Better dress warmly next weekend, Mr. Jones."


	5. April 16-20

Clothes cover every free surface of furniture. Emma stands in the middle of the disaster zone with a helpless expression on her face when Mary Margaret, Elsa, and Ruby enter the attic. Ruby freezes at the top of the stairs at the sight. "Oh… God," Elsa says, blinking a few times.

"Help," Emma declares, trying not to whine. She feels pathetic enough without her voice betraying her.

Mary Margaret props her hands on her hips, takes one look around the room-at the skin-tight short dresses that could hardly be called 'cocktail' length and the leather jackets, the designer stilettos nabbed for a song at factory outlet clearance sales, the cheap jewelry that held up under a passing glance but failed in an instant to any trained eye-and shakes her head. "This will not do."

Elsa and Ruby murmur their agreement. Elsa gently lifts up a black leather dress, giving it a critical once-over. "Is this… all of it?"

And Emma _likes _that dress. "Oh, God," she moans, dropping her head into her hands.

"You don't like shopping?" Ruby asks in disbelief.

Emma glances up through her fingers. Mary Margaret shakes her head again, folding up a jacket and placing it on the bed out of habit. "Not without hugely discounted price tags or with our credit card," she confirms.

Ruby's grin is back in full-force, the wicked one with too many teeth, as she prances over the maze of shoes on the floor and grabs Emma's hand. "Oh, _God_," Emma whines as she's led down the stairs.

* * *

><p>Entering the banquet hall makes her suddenly grateful for Mary Margaret's insistence on buying her the strapless, floor-length red dress. What felt overwhelming in the dressing room now pales in comparison to the glittering peacocks that fill the room. Emma knows most of the people here on sight by now, and it's amazing to see most of them out of their usual working clothes. "A <em>little <em>get-together?" she hisses in Mary Margaret's ear as an honest-to-God waiter offers them flutes of champagne.

"Emma, you stole and are currently wearing my diamond earrings, not to mention one of my gold bracelets. You have officially forfeited your right to complain," Mary Margaret replies calmly, taking a glass for herself and for David.

Emma grinds her teeth together in some semblance of a smile as she accepts a glass of her own. "It's not stealing if I plan on giving it back."

Her sister-in-law hums in response, linking her arm around her husband's. They make an elegant picture, Mary Margaret in a dress made of blue so pale to almost appear white and David in his tuxedo. Emma takes another look around the room and fights the urge to gulp the champagne every time she raises her glass for a sip.

Mary Margaret's voice raises in a happy cry. Emma turns to see another woman, her dress a pale yellow that makes her dark brown hair look all the more dramatic, hurry over to embrace Emma's sister-in-law. "I didn't realize you were back yet. I would have called! How was Argentina?"

The new woman smiles. "I think I've been home for about twelve hours, so I won't fault you." Emma can't place her accent, though it's clear from how diluted and blurred it is that she's transplanted a few times. When did Storybrooke become so cosmopolitan? "Argentina was really good. We might be making some purchases. How have things been? And who is this?"

She turns her attention to Emma, smiling kindly. Emma fears her smile in return might be a little too tight-lipped. "Emma. Emma Swan," she says, sticking her hand out.

The woman's eyebrows go up in recognition as they shake hands. "_The_ Emma Swan?"

David notices the panic growing in Emma's expression. "Emma, this is Belle, she's Gold's wife."

Emma throws an accusing look at David-_that's supposed to _help_?_-and he shrugs. Belle hesitates for a moment, then says, "I'm sorry, I think that came out a little… too accusatory. I just meant… I've heard of you, that's all."

"Still not sure if that's a good or a bad thing," Emma says under her breath. She finds the marble pattern on the floor very interesting to look at while she takes another sip of champagne.

"Hey," Belle says, and Emma glances up at her through her eyelashes. Belle's smiling. "If it helps, most of it's from Mary Margaret and David. I help Mary rehabilitate her strays. My husband and stepson didn't really talk much in the last few years, so I can't say I've heard much about you from them other than in passing."

"Oh." And then a vague memory of a phone call with Mary Margaret a year or so ago comes back to her. She hadn't paid much attention at the time, most things concerning the Gold family were quickly blocked out, but the words 'new wife' and 'rehab assistant' stuck out. "Right. Sorry."

Belle's smile is kind, and Emma notes how different she comes across from her husband. _There's a story there_, she thinks. She might even be able to hear it someday.

David taps her arm. "Come on, let's see if we can find a table without getting stopped seventeen times."

Emma smiles wryly. "Good luck with that." But she follows his lead-a little reluctantly, yes-into the crowd.

-/-

The whisky helps.

Talk centers around horses, but it's zeroed in on the sales, the purses, the bloodlines of the next big _investment_. Killian has bitten his tongue more times than he can count when some eejit or other goes on about 'the investment'. _It's not an 'investment', it's a living, breathing animal!_ he wants to shout, but he's here to pay lip service. He has to behave.

So the whisky helps.

Two of his three employers are accounted for-he saw Gold and Malcolm holding court by the doors to the veranda earlier. The fact that he hasn't spotted Regina means nothing; there are over two hundred people here. It doesn't stop his eye from wandering towards the entrance every few minutes. All he wants is to prove he was in attendance and slip out quietly, and the woman has the gall to not show up herself? He takes another irritated sip. The glass freezes against his lips when he sees Emma Swan enter with the Nolans.

She's a vision in red, with her hair braided and coiled around her head into some sort of curled ponytail. Killian watches her over the rim of his glass as she greets the young Mrs. Gold, who is as warm and lovely as her husband is shrewd. He keeps one eye on Emma as the conversation around him continues into the upcoming stakes races; Killian doesn't need to say anything to participate, he knows which horses will win and how much of the purse he'll be taking home with him. Emma is a more interesting subject as she passes through the crowd, following Mr. Nolan and greeting most of those she encounters. There's something about her smile, he decides. Something about how it doesn't quite light up her face the way it properly should, and he wonders if it's the person or the situation that's forcing her guard up.

A question distracts him, and when he's able to look again, he's lost sight of her in the crowd. _Ah well. Perhaps it's not so bad sticking it out after all_, he thinks as he forces a smile of his own when someone else comes up to introduce themselves.

-/-

Emma hears the first whisper from someone passing behind them as dinner plates are cleared. She's braced for it though, and lets it roll off her. _This is nothing_, she tells herself. _Just like the bullies in school, and here you're _definitely _not allowed to punch them._

She seems to be the only one who hears. Mary Margaret dominates the conversation over dessert with a plan to renovate one of the unused barns in the coming summer, with David interjecting possible plans to renovate the house. At one point, Regina excuses herself to call Henry and Emma takes the moment to look past the empty seat at Robin. "So, Robin. Henry mentioned you were a doctor of some kind?"

Robin grins. "I am, but think more Dr. Jones, not McDreamy. I work at the university-environmental science."

The name Jones calls to mind the afternoon at the Horn two weeks ago-and damn if it's not replaying in slow-motion, the water falling over his head and down his back. Emma jerks her head a little to try and clear her mind, pressing through to ask, "So you teach? Or is it all research? Oh please tell me there's field research, and you have a fedora and a whip."

Robin laughs at that. "A little of everything, but I'm afraid my area of study doesn't call for a bullwhip, and a machete would certainly go against my conservation ethics."

She smiles, and he slides over to occupy Regina's empty seat and tell her about his current research. When Belle comes to talk to Mary Margaret again he hardly pauses to say hello, and Emma is fascinated by how intense he gets about it. _Though, to dedicate a good portion of your life to the study of one thing you probably need to be passionate about it,_ she thinks. At one point he pulls a miniature moleskine notebook out of his breast pocket and shows her some of his notes and sketches. She admittedly has no idea what half of it means, but it's rather charming to watch him get so enthusiastic while treating her like a peer.

She doesn't see Belle, Mary Margaret and David leave the table rather abruptly, she's too absorbed in trying to understand the impromptu ecology lesson. However, when she asks Robin to clarify something, she doesn't hear his answer. Instead, she hears someone behind her distinctly say, "She's shameless, really. First the Nolans, then the scandal with the Golds, now this? With his wife here, even, at her table."

Her blood runs cold. Something must show on her face, because Robin immediately looks concerned. "Emma? What is it?"

She looks at him without really seeing him. It's as if her mind and body have detached, and she can't quite put them back together to function as one. She was prepared for all sorts of barbs and idle gossip about Neal, but this is yards-_miles-_-ahead of that, going straight for the jugular, insinuating that she's a gold digger.

She's not stupid. She's a foster kid, she spent time in group homes. She's carried seventeen kinds of stigmas on her shoulders her entire life-a thief, an easy lay, always sniffing around for money. People have said things about her and David for years, and both of them, or their friends or family, have been quick to set them straight. He's her brother, he's _family_, but people are idiots and can't look past a man and a woman-or a boy and a girl-who aren't blood-related being anything but romantically linked.

But this is different. They're implying she'd never had any feelings about Neal-only his dad's money. And now she's moving in on _Regina's_ husband? _Regina_. Did none of them _know_ her, or how dead Emma would already be if that were _remotely_ true?

There's a gentle hand under her arm, pulling her to her feet. "Come on, Emma."

-/-

"Mr. Jones."

Killian turns from the glittering sight of those who had never had a lesson attempting to perform a waltz. It's the most amusing thing he's seen all evening, but Regina prefers his full and prompt attention. "Mrs. Hood. As promised, done up to pay my respects to the village squire."

The corner of her mouth curves up a little, and he mentally tallies himself a point-he takes what he can get with her. "Not bad," she admits, giving him a once-over.

He nods and gestures with his glass to the phone in her hand. "Checking on the lads?"

"Yes, Henry's watching Roland, and the Nolans' son as well. I wanted to be sure we still have a house to come home to," she says. She tucks the phone into her clutch, and watches the spectacle on the dance floor with folded arms. "He's suffering through a night of Mario Kart and five-year old boys who don't quite know how to work a controller."

Killian chuckles. "Oh, he'll rally," he says, raising his glass to his lips.

"Indeed." Regina pauses for a moment, and then glances back at him. "So, has it been tolerable, or are you actually shotgunning liquor like Dr. Lucas says?"

He raises his clear glass in cheers. "I have behaved myself, and I switched to club soda over the meal, thanks. Personally, I don't understand how you clubhouse types stand one another."

She smirks. "Mostly by taking each other's money and pretending it's not personal."

"Fair enough."

Two women walk past them; he can't make out what they're discussing, but Regina must have, from the way she tenses. Before he can ask, Mary Margaret hurries up to them. "Oh, I found you," she says, a bit breathlessly. "Regina, damage control."

"I just heard," Regina responds. Her normally cool voice is icy. "Where's Gold?"

She glances at Killian, who gives a half-shrug. "Last I saw, he was back by the bay doors with Malcolm and their crowd."

"You think it's him?" Mary Margaret asks. "Belle wasn't sure."

Regina's eyes are narrowed almost to slits, and suddenly Killian feels very earnest about remaining on her good side. He also has a vague urge to find a priest and confess his every sin. "Of course she claims she isn't. Now me, I say it's him, or I'm not the reason his son's rotting in prison," Regina says.

Mary Margaret's expression is pained as she nods. "Right. Okay. First thing, we need to move Emma away from the crowd-"

Regina rounds on Killian. He remains still, unsure if she's the type to attack based on movement or smell. "Jones. You don't have a particular urge to stay in the thick of things, do you?" She doesn't wait for him to answer. "Of course you don't, you didn't even want to come. Stay right here, and I'll be back in a minute."

She storms away in a furious clatter of heels, and he's left wondering what exactly just happened. "Mrs. Nolan, might I inquire as to what the devil all of this is about?" he asks her.

"You can call me Mary Margaret, Killian, it's fine," she says. She's tense, green eyes sharply watching those around her. "It's… You know how you came to buy the Horn. Graham Humbert was murdered in the barn."

He nods. Even if he hadn't come to take over the Horn, he would have to be fairly ignorant to not know it. The story dominated the headlines for weeks the previous fall: Humbert had been found in the barn with a broken neck. The stable hands who found him thought he'd slipped and fallen from the hayloft in the night, but too many questions led to a deeper investigation-this was spurned by immense pressure from the three main owners at the stable: Gold, Malcolm, and Regina. The only owner who hadn't insisted was Gold's somewhat estranged son, Neal. The reasons why became apparent as evidence came up, and pressure from Gold, Sr. eased. When the man arrested for the actual murder named Gold's only son as his controller?

Well, the phrase 'all hell broke loose' might be an understatement. And this was before the equine drugging accusations and proof, surfaced. By then, it was all the elder Gold could do to try and wash his hands of the ordeal. Killian came into the picture in October, when the investigation was wrapping up and the trial going underway.

Mary Margaret shifts uncomfortably. "Neal-he and Emma were involved. Several years ago. Some people here, apparently, find this amusing to gossip about. Particularly when Neal has just been found guilty and imprisoned, and now Emma comes back to town. It seems that some… individuals here find that a little too interesting."

Killian privately applauds her ability to recant this with restraint. There's an angry heat burning in his chest and he hardly knows the woman. "Some individuals find themselves to have puffs of dandelion fluff where some might find brains," he mutters.

Regina returns as Mary Margaret laughs a little bitterly, with a dazed-looking Emma in tow. "Now they've brought my husband into it," Regina all but snarls. Killian has an educated guess as to what may have been said. "I'll make history if I have to, Gold can share a cell with his son for defamation of character and reputation."

"Regina," Emma mutters, her gaze downcast. "It's fine."

"No, Emma," Mary Margaret says, laying a soothing hand on Emma's arm. "It isn't."

Regina doesn't have time for kindness and all but throws Emma at him. "Jones, get her out of here."

He doesn't have time to ask anything further as Regina and Mary Margaret turn almost in unison and head back into the crowd. He glances at Emma. "Do you have a coat or anything?"

She mutely lifts up a shimmery black shawl. She looks shell-shocked and something in him shifts-a tenderness he rarely feels for any creature with two legs instead of four. "Here, lass, let's just go," Killian says softly and puts his arm around her shoulders, guiding her out into the open air.

Outside, he takes the shawl from her. It's still fairly warm out, but he can't help but notice two things: she's shivering, and there's almost no back to her dress. He can imagine what his brother might say-_Now's not the time, little brother_. Killian smiles ruefully and drapes the shawl around her shoulders. The gesture-however mild-seems to bring some life back into her. "Thanks," she mumbles, gripping at the edges and drawing it closer around her.

His truck isn't far. Emma takes up the vow of silence once more during the walk across the parking lot. "Where to, love?" Killian asks, helping her into the passenger side. "My meter's broken, so take advantage of a free ride while you can." He grins, trying to provoke a response from her, but she only smiles wanly, her eyes far away. Killian's brow furrows, and he worries his lip with the tip of his tongue for a moment before closing the door and jogging to the driver's side.

She's quiet as he starts the truck and heads out of the track. Glancing over, he sees her hands quivering in her lap; he reaches over and flips on the heat. She doesn't say anything, and it's starting to bother him-if their previous encounters were anything to go by, she should have made at least three barbs against him by now.

He can only stand another minute of the strained silence before his gift of gab kicks in. "I should be thanking you, Miss Swan, for giving me an excuse to get out of there. I hadn't wanted to go in the first place, but you know Mrs. Hood. Damn woman has a way of making a man do exactly what he doesn't want to. And then I'm stuffed in this monkey suit with a stuffy lot, in a stuffy room, and the only good thing about it is the free alcohol. Seems to me, love, it might have done some good to imbibe a little."

Silence. He glances over quickly; her expression is harder now, a fierce glint in her eye. Irritation is better than numbness. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk as his eyes go back to the road. "Though, nothing's really stopping us from crashing the pub. We'll be the talk of the town, you and I, dressed for his lordship and drinking cheap beers. Company will be better too, no doubt."

There's movement in the corner of his eye on his right, and Emma is no longer shaking but rather twisting the hem of her shawl as if its offended her. Killian's not sure if it's him or the affair at the track that has her destroying her pretty things, but he's not one to care much for his safety anyway. "What say you, Swan-let's have a drink and see where the night takes us."

"Turn the car around." Her voice is hard, flat, and could cut a man where he stood.

"Now, Swan, is the thought of spending an evening with me that detestable?"

"Turn. The fucking. Car. Around."

Killian drops the pretense with a relieved sigh. He wants her showing some emotion, not completely out to destroy his ego. "Lass, we're almost at the Point. I'm dropping you home and we'll be done with it."

He glances over at her again. Her eyes are steel, her posture rigid. "The Point isn't where I want to be. Last warning. Turn the fucking car around Jones, before I shove you out of the way and do it myself."

Killian shrugs, and slows enough to make the U-turn in the middle of the country road. She sucks in a breath, bracing herself against the force, and breathes out shakily as they make their way back. "Where to then?" he asks conversationally.

"I have a few choice words to say to Gold."

He raises an eyebrow but holds his tongue. He'd actually put good money down on that kind of encounter, but he knows no bookies are in attendance back at the track. This is turning out to be more of an interesting evening than he'd thought.

-/-

If there was a time she'd been more furious, the murder that must have come from it was done in some state of blackout rage because she definitely can't remember it. The fucking balls he has to have to try this. He's a grown-ass man, a respected businessman, and he's resorting to petty, _stupid _gossip. And for _what_?

That's the part that makes her even more angry. There's no _point _to this. She left _before_ all of this nonsense got out of control, _before_ Neal got it into his head that drugging the competition was the way to win. She cut her ties and ran to _stop_ this kind of idiocy from happening, not from starting the second she got back.

And having a living, flirting Blarney Stone next to her for the past fifteen minutes really only fanned her fires higher.

So of course she makes him turn the truck around. The entire drive back she sees the wariness in the way he hitches his right shoulder higher, the quick glances when Killian thinks she isn't looking. But it's not Killian's blood she's after tonight.

The truck isn't even stopped when she throws the door open and storms up the parking lot. "Swan!"

She hears the engine cut-did he seriously just park it there in the middle of the lane?-and doors slamming shut, and then shoes slapping the pavement as he tries to catch up with her. "Hold up, you can't just-"

There's a crowd of people at the top of the stairs she's marching up, Killian realizing (finally) that talking her out of it is useless and falling a step behind on her left like he's her second in a duel or something. Gold's voice raises above the rest as she surmounts the stairs. "I refuse to stand here and be accused of such nonsense!" he says loudly.

He breaks free of the crowd, only to be met with Emma's furious glare. "Then maybe stand over here while I read you the riot act," she snaps.

"Miss Swan," Gold says tiredly. "I regret that my peers have found you to be the most interesting subject of discussion this evening, but rest assured that I-"

"-had everything to do with it," she cuts him off. "Yeah, I was already assured of that. Because who else knows about the conversation-no, you weren't that polite that night, or tonight for that matter, so I'm just going to cut the bullshit. The _blistering accusations_ you threw at me and at your son when Neal said he wanted to marry me, about how I only wanted your money? Because I was a nobody with no family, living off charity, wanting to fuck my way into money?" She hates the way her voice breaks in the middle of her speech, with the way everyone was staring, but this was going to stop tonight. She would be damned if any of his stupid gossip got out into the world without her putting up a fight about it. "Because I'm pretty sure that there were only three of us in the room for that humiliating experience. I was ready to handle a lot of bullshit about your son tonight, Gold, but this took the goddamn cake."

Gold's jaw clenches as the murmurs begin behind him. She can see Mary Margaret and David pushing their way towards her in the crowd. Emma takes a shaky breath. "I'm sorry Neal's in jail. But I didn't put him there. Don't take this out on me."

"Of course you put him there." It would have been better if he yelled; Emma feels unclean from the way he hisses his words at her, the way he leans closer every few words, as if being nearer to her will stick the barbs deeper, make it all hurt worse. "He was consumed by the thought of getting you back, by any way possible. You left him, you put him on this path. You are the _entire _reason my son is sitting up in Warren with no chance of bail!"

Emma's reaction is swift, and the punch connecting with his jaw sends the man sprawling on the ground. She feels cold again, the shaking starting in her chest and working its way down her arms. Her knuckles throb from the impact, but it's a good throb, a satisfying one. She looks down at Gold for one more moment, before she turns to Killian. "_Now_ you can take me home," she tells him coolly, and she lifts her skirt slightly so she doesn't ruin the moment by tripping down the stairs.


	6. April 20

Killian throws the truck into park. The moonlight throws Shepherd's Point into pale relief, long shadows stretching from the barns and the trees; the silvery light mingles with the greenish glow coming from the dashboard in the cab. Emma takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, absently rubbing her thumb over her knuckles. "How's the hand, love?" he asks.

She shrugs, holding it up for him. It's hard to see anything distinctive in the scant light: her skin looks mottled green. "It'll be bruised, but kinda worth it, you know?"

Then she smiles and he finds himself smiling in return. "I probably shouldn't say so, seeing as how he's my employer," Killian says, looking away, "but if ever I've met anyone who deserves a sucker punch, it's him."

Emma laughs and Killian detects some bitterness there, but doesn't push it. From the revelation earlier, she has every right to be bitter about Gold. The old man couldn't bear to have his only son marry a girl he thought was only after money, and so he'd forced them apart. She'd run off to save her own feelings-likely this is what Henry had meant when saying Emma had left, which meant he'd grossly misjudged their time apart-and it had driven the younger Gold down a dark path. She was quite right in saying it wasn't her fault Neal had gone and had someone murdered-she was well out of the picture-but her reappearance after so long made sense: she probably felt guilty. She probably wanted to make things right.

Now, she fiddles with her shawl, and reaches for the door. "Well… thanks. For the ride. And the getaway car."

"My pleasure," Killian tells her. As she pulls the lever, he says, "Oh, and make sure you ice that. If you think there's bruising. It'll help with swelling, and we can't have you needing me to carry ladders for you tomorrow."

"Good_night_, Mr. Jones," she says, looking at him with a wry smile.

He grins. "Goodnight, Miss Swan."

Emma opens the door and steps out. The full moon's light silver-gilts her hair and skin-she's made for moonlight and darkness, like Artemis on the hunt. Killian scoffs at himself again for being an eejit poet, and the sound makes her hesitate at closing the door. She looks at him, her eyes wide and dark in her face. "Um. About that drink," she starts.

He lifts an eyebrow curiously. "At the pub?"

"Well… I was thinking a little closer to home," she answers, and her shoulders relax slightly. "I was thinking about having one. Or more. Kind of need it after… that." She waves her hand, scowling. "But I have this rule where I don't drink alone anymore, and I'm kinda sure David and Mary Margaret won't be home for a while."

He raises his other eyebrow as well. "Are you inviting me in, Swan?"

Emma lets out an exasperated sigh, her shoulders dropping. "Not like _that._"

Killian chuckles, and turns the ignition off. "Well, far be it from me to leave a damsel in distress."

"Just drinks, Jones," she says with warning as he gets out of his side and they slam the doors shut. He follows her up the path to the porch, watching in amusement as she dismantles an artificial mushroom for a spare key. She glances back at him wryly. "David still has my keys. Try not to rob us, alright?"

"Thief's honor, I won't," he tells her, holding the storm door for her as she unlocks the main one. "Besides, I know where the money really is around here."

She snorts as she leads him in. "Yeah, and you'd have a real interesting time trying to get away with a couple of Thoroughbreds."

There's a clatter, and she shrinks a few inches-her shoes have been discarded. As she hikes her skirts up higher, he can't help the question that comes out, "How the bloody hell is that dress staying on, love?"

Emma twists and looks at him in surprise for a moment before starting to laugh. "A lot of hope and double-sided tape."

-/-

She has no idea why she's doing this. She barely knows him. Oh, she knows the rumors-supposedly he's been with more than one of his employers' wives, perhaps the reason why his stay at some farms have been shorter than others-but after her own experiences tonight she's less inclined to believe them than she might have been yesterday.

But she was telling the truth when she says she has a rule against drinking alone. After she left Neal and went to New York, she'd gone on kind of a bender. Okay, it was a full-on bender. Only by sheer stupid luck was she still alive and relatively unhurt-and that the only residual effects were her aversion of vodka and the forget-me-not tattoo on her left wrist.

And maybe she's just using that rule as an excuse to get to know him better, but she won't tell him that.

Emma's glad for the darkness in the house still when he asks about her dress. Her face feels warm, and she decides to change into something more comfortable before getting down to business. Killian declines the offer of something of David's to change into, so she shrugs and disappears into the attic for a few minutes to change into an old Boston University t-shirt of David's and a pair of jeans she probably should have thrown out after the fourth rip.

She enters the kitchen to see that he's flicked on the lights, shed his jacket, tie, and waistcoat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His shirt's been unbuttoned a few times as well, revealing a silver Celtic cross shining brightly against the patch of dark hair on his chest. Emma blinks a few times and clears her throat. "Can't find the good stuff?" she asks brightly.

She can feel his eyes on her as she moves around the kitchen, collecting glasses and the key to the liquor cabinet. He chuckles. "Figures Mr. Nolan would have one of those with the lad running around."

Emma bursts out laughing at 'Mr. Nolan'. "Oh _please_ tell me you call him that to his face."

He looks at her quizzically. "I do, yes."

She can't help but giggle while she collects a bottle of tequila from the cabinet and then a box of lemon wedges from the fridge. The idea of anyone seriously calling David 'Mr. Nolan' could possibly be the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard, but she'd hold out for the more ridiculous thing. Killian raises an eyebrow at her selection when she sets her findings on the table. "You do know I have to drive tonight. Morning workouts come awfully early."

Emma shrugs. "More for me then. Grab some of this and follow me."

She leads him out the back door and down the sloping lawn to Leo's swing set. The swing gives a little under her as she sits, and then the whole thing droops again when his weight comes down on its twin next to her. "Roomy," he chirps, wiggling a little in the child-sized swing, and she snorts again.

He holds out the glasses at her indication, and she pours them each a healthy cupful of tequila. The box of lemons sits on the ground between them. "Okay," Emma says, looping an arm around the chain. "Q and A time. Trade off questions. If you pass on a question, you have to take a drink."

Killian's groan turns into a chuckle as he reaches down and takes a lemon wedge. "Love, you're definitely trying to kill me here."

"Please. Like you haven't been dying to pick at me a little more," she says.

He raises his eyebrows at that, his eyes glinting in the moonlight, but Emma merely shrugs. She's noticed the way he looks at her, and she's definitely aware of the way she looks at him. He gets under her skin, and she jabs back at him. And she's seen him at work. She's watched him in the paddock and at the Horn when she's picking up or dropping off Henry. He's quiet and patient-with the horses _and_ Henry. They're going to be working together-in a broad sense, anyway. He'd helped her out tonight, however unwillingly at first. She's not going to deny any of what she's feeling-call it interest or attraction or just plain curiosity-for her pride, or what's left of it after tonight. "So, why'd you buy the Horn?" Emma asks.

Killian chuckles darkly. "Pass. Bad luck, love," he tells her, and he takes a drink, sticking the lemon wedge in his mouth after. She smirks; she hadn't expected an answer, but it was worth a shot. He drops the pulp in the wood chippings. "How old were you when you left Storybrooke?"

"Twenty-three," she says, and tilts her glass around, watching the moon's reflection glide along the surface. "Are you planning on staying very long here?"

"Pass. Try asking something a little easier, darling, like my favorite color," he answers, and takes another drag from his glass. "The shirt's a bit large on you, is it yours?"

She glares at him for passing again-though it's still an informative answer. She wonders how well _that's_ going to go over. "No, it's David's. I didn't go to college. How long have you been working with horses?"

Killian raises an eyebrow at her comment about college. "Forever, feels like. Da was a gambler, hung around the track and I fell in love with the beasts, to be an eejit about it. Started young, doing whatever I could. Why didn't you go to college?"

"Pass," she tells him, and she takes a drink. The tequila burns, and she soothes it with a lemon. That's not a fight she wants to relive with _herself_, let alone him. But if he wants to get personal, she'd pick up that gauntlet. "How old were you when you had your first kiss?"

She glances over, her expression purely innocent as he looks at her sharply. Emma can see his lips twitching as he fights the urge to smile or smirk or something. "Don't laugh," he cautions her. "I was seventeen and I'd lost a bet with one of me mates." She probably wouldn't have laughed if he hadn't warned her, but there's a bubble of laughter threatening to burst out now. He must see the struggle she's having to remain composed because he scoffs, reaching over and shoving her. "Alright then, what about you?"

She swings like a pendulum, and clears her throat-and if it sounds like amusement, he's hearing things. "Fourteen," she admits. "It was a dare." She hesitates for a moment as another question pops into her head. It's a relatively normal question, but if Killian continues his trend she's not sure if she'll pass or not. "You said your dad's a gambler-can't gamble money you don't have."

Emma senses there's a story to the chuckle as he answers, "Oh, where there's a will, there's a way."

"Fair enough. So other than gamble, what do your parents do?"

He looks down at the glass in his hands. Emma tilts her head at him when the silence lingers for a bit too long. Finally, he lifts his glass at her in a toast, a sardonic grin on his face. "Whatever dead people do, love. Yours?"

Guilt bites her, but it was a fair question. She didn't know, and now she did. And his honesty could only be rewarded with hers. She taps her glass against his, her smile just as grim. "Whatever people who abandon their kids do."

Their eyes lock. She can't tell if there's pity there, but then she's not sure if there's any in her expression either. They nod, and they each take a drink. "There's a certain solidarity between those who have been left behind, a bond that can't be broken," he tells her as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He reaches up and scratches behind his ear. "Sorry you had to be bonded to me, Swan."

"I can think of worse people," she says quietly.

He shifts, pushing back in the swing and bracing himself up. She twists a little from side to side; she wishes it were warmer. She misses the sound of crickets-and they'd help fill the gap in conversation. It wasn't awkward-how could it be, when it was the truth?-but a little bit of noise might help ease them back down from the slight tension in the air. He lets gravity slide him back to rest. Emma breathes a laugh at the sight of his nice shoes buried in the wood chips. "What's your favorite color?" she asks finally.

"Sea green. What's your favorite song?"

Interesting break in the pattern. "This week, or of all time?"

"That's not fair, Swan, answering a question with a question."

Emma grins. "I like old soul music, like, from the sixties, but every now and then something catches me from now. Where are you from?"

"A village no one's heard of in County Louth. Near the border," he answers, but he takes a drink anyway. Emma raises an eyebrow at that. "What do you think will happen when Gold complains to the commission about your little boxing match?" Killian asks.

Oh this she definitely doesn't want to think about. She can think of all sorts of suspensions in place, possibly being fired. Being banned from the stables is a likely candidate. The prospect of being forced to apologize is almost unbearable-she hates apologizing for nothing. "Pass," she answers instead, taking another long drink. "What's the border?"

"Northern Ireland?" he answers. She lifts one shoulder in a shrug-geography was never her best subject. He snorts and looks away. "What's a nice girl like you doing with a tattoo?"

Emma smiles wryly and lifts her glass to her lips. "Pass."

"Oh, now she's getting all mysterious," Killian teases. "You do realize, darling, the more layers you hide behind, the more determined I am to uncover the real you underneath."

"Too bad." Nevermind he has her blushing again, but it's not even an interesting story-how do you explain you woke up after a four-day bender with an intricately designed flower on your wrist with no memory of how it got there? She puts a lemon wedge between her teeth, sucks, and tosses the husk on the ground. "Ever been married?"

He barks a laugh. "No. Came close once. You?"

She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Came close once," she echoes. "You clearly saw how that worked out." Emma takes a long drink, and another lemon wedge.

It's her turn to dig in and stretch her legs on the swing, letting it sway her back to rest. She's tempted to just down the whole glass and refill it, but she knows better-especially since she'd overindulged not long ago. She just doesn't want to think about Neal today. Or ever again, preferably, but today is also fine. She doesn't want to relive the last few months of their relationship, as he'd pulled away from her and gotten absorbed in his work, grown distracted even when they were together.

She'd been sure it was pressure from his father to pull away, to force them apart, but Gold's words earlier had her questioning it again. He'd said Neal worked hard to try and get her back. How? By winning as many stakes as he could, starting his own fortune?

She'd never wanted that. She'd only wanted him. And if he'd thought she'd approve of him _drugging the competition_ in order to win those stakes…

Fuck.

Emma drops her glass on the ground. The tequila spills into the wood as she stands up and rubs her arms furiously, trying to clear her mind of her ex. _It's over, it's done, Gold's a liar, Neal's locked up and I never have to be around him again_, she tells herself.

"Swan?"

She turns. Killian's watching her with concern. "Sorry," she says. "Just… weird. Feeling weird."

"Understandable," he says. "Should I go?"

"I…" Emma hesitates, but then light sweeps the grounds and it's her Bug coming up the drive. She wonders how late it is, if David and Mary Margaret took their time picking up Leo from Regina's to give Emma some space to calm down.

Killian bends and picks up some of their loot, Emma grabs the rest and they head back up to the house. She locks up the tequila and sticks the glasses in the dishwasher as her brother comes in carrying Leo-fast asleep-and Mary Margaret waves. Killian picks up his discarded clothing. "Thank you," she says quietly.

The ceiling creaks as her family moves around upstairs. Killian smiles. It softens him, she realizes. Or maybe it's the liquor at work, and she worries about him driving back. "Where's your phone?" she asks.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an ancient-looking flip phone. Emma almost laughs at it as she takes it, and then at herself as she struggles to enter her phone number. "Text me when you get back to the Horn," she tells him. "I can't afford to be up all night worrying."

Killian's eyebrow twitches upward, almost like he's understood something. "Aye, I'll do that. And like I said, love, it's far from me to leave a damsel in distress," he tells her.

He takes his phone from her but keeps hold of her hand in his fingers. His calloused thumb brushes gently over her knuckles, already turning purple. Emma holds her breath. "Remember to ice this," he tells her softly. "I'm a busy man, no time for ladders."

Emma breaks, breathing freely again as he lets her go. "Right."

"Goodnight, Miss Swan."

He's at the door when she says, "It's… Call me Emma. Please."

Killian looks back at her, and she feels heat rising in her face. _I've had too much tequila_, she tells herself, shifting a little. She looks down as she wipes her hands on her jeans. When she meets his gaze again, she _definitely_ doesn't notice the crows feet around his eyes as he grins. "Goodnight, _Emma_," he says.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, she's staring at the moon from her bed and her phone buzzes. She notes the unfamiliar number on the screen with the message that reads, <em>landed safe, Swan. Rest easy.<em>

Emma adds his number to her contacts, replies with an affirmative, and slips under the covers. She readjusts the ice pack she has taped to her hand, and tries desperately not to think about how much trouble she's going to be in come morning. "Worry about it when you wake up," she mutters to herself, and she buries her face in her pillow.


	7. April 21

Five seconds stand between Emma and the complete destruction of the archiving equipment when Elsa walks into the control room. "Emma, what the hell happened last night?"

"Stupid, goddamn motherf-what?" Emma asks distractedly. She feels like her head is going to explode and it's not even eleven o'clock, which really bodes well for how the rest of the day is going to go. It's not even that she's that hungover-she _was_ a bit grumpier than usual this morning but the coffee helped-it's that there are _computers_ that _don't do what they're supposed to_. "Why are you here so early?"

"Anna forgot her lunch," Elsa informs her as she slips into her seat and rolls over to where Emma is trying to unsuccessfully work on backups. "The commissioners want you down in the office. A few of them are about to hit the roof, something about one of the owners? And then I saw Regina Hood on my way out, and I've never seen her so angry."

Emma sighs heavily, combing her fingers through her hair. Just because she expected this happening doesn't mean she wants to face the reality of it. "Jesus."

"Might not be a bad idea to start praying if Regina's down there," Elsa says, taking over the archiving. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes."

Emma smiles crookedly, getting up. Regina has that effect on people. "No, she's on my side. I think."

Elsa arches an eyebrow in interest. "Details later?"

"If I'm still alive. You got this?"

Elsa breathes a laugh and nods. Emma heads down to the racing commission offices, bracing herself for a fight. It's probably not the best idea to amp herself up, but she'd rather go down swinging-hell, she'd rather throw the first punch if she could-than sit on the sidelines and wait for judgement. She runs down the list of everything that had happened at the banquet last night, forming a defense for every possible accusation they could throw at her. She's practically vibrating with anticipation and anger when she throws open the doors to the office and storms past David into the boardroom, where Regina is already seated like a queen.

It doesn't go quite as badly as expected-Emma's not sure if Regina smoothed things over before she got there or not-but Emma still has to replay the night several times for the chairman, several commissioners, and the board of stewards. With every replay she gets more and more irritated with the whole situation. Regina stays to back her, but David isn't allowed in the room-they can hear him arguing with a judge in the hallway. At one point, there are so many people in the room that Emma demands to know if the jocks and valets should come in and weigh their opinions as well. Regina lays a hand on Emma's arm to quiet any further outbursts.

Finally, Albert Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. "Miss Swan," Spencer begins, "while we agree that the actions taken against you by Mr. Gold were unjust, we can't in good conscience allow your response to go unanswered-"

"What was she supposed to do, walk away and let her reputation be tarnished?" Regina interrupts. "If Emma were a man, or lined your pockets like Gold does, we wouldn't be having this discussion. She'd get a slap on the wrist and be on her way. Then again, if Emma were a man, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place."

The noise in the hall gets louder; it sounds like someone else has begun arguing with David as well. The chairman turns purple. "Mrs. Hood, your implications and tone border on insubordination-"

Regina tossed her hair over her shoulder. "My tone is the same I use in the courtroom every day-where I should be, instead of wasting my time here with this nonsense that Gold brought upon himself. And don't think we can't bring you in for workplace discrimination, Mr. Spencer." The look of cold fury she's giving Albert could freeze anyone in their tracks. "As for my implications… I have ears, Chairman," she says, shrugging.

Emma wants to be Regina when she grows up. Spencer fumes for several long moments. Emma glances between him and Regina, waiting for the contest of wills to break. The shouting in the hallway peaks, and then the door flies open. "Chairman Spencer, if you're punishing Miss Swan then you'll have to punish me as well. I was responsible for her at the time," an Irish brogue declares.

_Oh, God_… This is not helping. Emma rubs the point between her eyebrows in frustration. "Mr. Jones, I do not need anyone white-knighting for me-"

Spencer slaps his hand on the table, causing Emma and Regina to jump in their seats. His jaw is set in a grim line. "I'm fining all of you two hundred dollars apiece for wasting my time with this idiocy. _Yes_, Gold as well, Mrs. Hood, you can check the commission records yourself when the check clears. And _don't_ think you're out of this either, Jones, you brought this onto yourself the moment you set foot in this room. Now _all _of you get the hell out of my sight before I suspend every one of you from the grounds."

"Yessir," Emma mutters, and she gets up.

Emma doesn't have two hundred dollars to spare, but she also doesn't have time to sit around arguing details when there's work to be done. A fine is better than most of the alternatives; she'll suck it up. Her hands flex and clench as she moves swiftly out of the boardroom, her breathing tight as she attempts to calm down. Regina is hot on her heels. "Emma, don't worry about the money-" she starts.

Irritation sparks through Emma's veins. _Oh this has to stop right now._ "It's fine," she cuts her off, waving her hand. "I'll make it work."

David, loitering in the hall waiting for them, tries to intercept her as she passes. "Emma, what happened in-"

Emma sidesteps his arm; any attempts at calming her anger are quickly flying out the window. She really doesn't feel like being all touchy-feely about the whole thing. "Don't worry about it, David, just go make sure King is ready," she snaps.

"_Emma_-" Killian calls from behind them.

She ignores the trail of people she's picked up like ducklings until they're well outside the commission offices. She doesn't need another fine for starting a brawl on government property-not that she _intends_ on starting a brawl, but shit happens. When there's enough distance behind them, she whirls around and jabs David in the chest with a finger. "David, I love you, but now is _not_ the time. You have other things to do, go do them." He looks shocked, but she doesn't have time for his hurt feelings. She turns her head to glare at Regina. "It sucks, but I'll make it work with the money. Thank you, but I've _got _this, Regina."

Regina inclines her head slightly, her expression guarded. Killian stands just behind David, watching her carefully. It's his subdued manner that sets her off. "And _you_, what the hell were you even _thinking_ barging in like that?" she demands.

His face darkens. "I was _thinking_ I could _help_," Killian says heatedly.

"Yeah, and now we're out a collective eight hundred bucks, good job on that!" Emma snaps.

"I don't give a damn about the money, Swan-"

Emma crows her laughter. "Oh I'm so glad one of us doesn't care about money! This isn't about _money_, Jones, this is about me not needing anyone's help!"

"Hey!" Regina injects.

"_We_ were handling it fine," Emma continues, glancing at Regina, who looks satiated with the 'we', "and Regina had Spencer backed into a corner. He was going to let me off, and then _you_ came in and broke the whole goddamn thing to pieces!"

Killian looks really angry now, and Emma's hackles are up. She's more than ready to go toe-to-toe with someone, even if that someone had been kind to her the night before. He steps around David, stalking up to her. "Ara sure it's not about money, and the temper's back after an attempt to smother it with spirits, isn't it Swan?" Killian snaps. "Begging pardon, miss, for thinking the worst was afoot and you were getting sacked for naught! Pray spare a poor stable lad's ego for daring to step in the main house!"

Emma stands her ground. "The entire goddamn room heard you arguing with David and the judges! Did you not think maybe they were right to keep both of you out of it?! David's family, and you're basically a stranger-_and_ Gold practically owns you, how was that not going to go over well?!"

Killian says some things she doesn't understand-slurring all his vowels together with some sharp consonants making an occasional appearance-all the while gesticulating wildly, and though she doesn't know if she needs to call a priest for an exorcism, she _does_ know it sounds angry. "And _another_ thing," he says in English, "you're gone in the head if you think that git has any ownership over the likes of me!"

"Cut the fancy bullshit, Jones," Emma retorts, because how else is she supposed to react when she doesn't understand half of what he's saying, and then he steps too close. "You'll be lucky if this doesn't get out, or Gold'll have you killed too! It's bad enough he saw you with me last night!"

They're inches apart now, and she furiously tries to shove him away but he grabs her hands firmly-not hard, just enough to hold her in place. "It's kind of you to worry about me, Swan, but on the short list of men I fear, Gold is not one of them," he tells her. "If you haven't noticed, it's a free country. And if you don't stop struggling you're going to hurt yourself further."

He says something else she doesn't understand, his thumb brushing over her bruised knuckles, and she grits her teeth. "I'm not one of your horses to be handled and sweet-talked out of a tantrum, Jones, _let me go_!"

She yanks her hands free and glares up at him-there's heat his eyes, and she feels like not all of it is temper. She's feeling flushed, though from her rage or their proximity she's not sure. They are _way_ too close, and despite the rising urge to uppercut him, she's also seized with the urge to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless. "Don't shove at me and I won't have to stop you," Killian murmurs fiercely. "Have we a deal?"

"Fine," she says tightly. She takes a step back, trying to break the intensity of the stare he's fixing her with. "I have work to do."

"Sure and I've foostered enough around here," he says.

Belatedly Emma realizes they still have an audience. She feels herself turning red when she notices the way David stands braced, arms crossed like he's deciding whether or not to intervene, or how Regina's eyebrow is raised in that way she gets when she's found something of interest. Without another word Emma turns on her heel and heads back inside.

-/-

Killian's still fuming at the end of the racing day. All afternoon he had snapped at exercise boys and grooms, spoken curtly with his jocks-all the while the image of Emma, standing braced against his temper and firing back with her own, burned in his mind. _She'd try the patience of a saint_, he thinks with a scowl as he prepares Battle and Mongrel for traveling back to the Horn.

He's only glad that their owner has chosen to make himself scarce for the day. As much as Emma's words had irked him earlier, and as much as he claimed to have no fear of the man, there was a reason that many in the racing circuit gave Gold a wide berth. The man's had more than a handful of people fired over the years, careers ruined with a word, business relations strained. Like as not, Killian will face some kind of penalty for his actions.

He stands with a sigh, leg wraps done. Battle butts her head against his shoulder in a demand for attention, shaking her chestnut mane. Killian softens slightly and pats her nose. "You're a feisty lady after me own heart, _a mhuirnín_," he tells her softly.

She whickers and noses his pockets. He laughs, and she rolls her eyes at him, headbutting his chest. "You know you get carsick, sweetheart, no carrots for you yet," he says, stroking her neck.

"She used to bite Graham, you know," someone says behind him.

He tenses at the male voice, but his brain registers the distinct lack of Scottish in the tone a moment later and he relaxes. Killian glances over to see David leaning against the stall entrance. "Mr. Nolan," he says, nodding in greeting.

"Jones," David says as he nods and gestures to Battle, who has decided Killian's an ideal scratching post by rubbing her head on his shirt. Killian scratches between her ears. "She's a menace, this one, used to terrorize the kids. Graham would call his bites 'Battle scars'. You've gentled her a lot."

Killian finger-combs Battle's forelock. There's a scar on his ring finger from his first month at the Horn. He'd never wanted to gentle her, just get her to understand the oval was a more productive use of her energy. She'd brought in quite a few purses since this understanding. "You just have to know how to talk to them. No disrespect to Mr. Humbert."

David's eyes are downcast for a moment, and then he clears his throat. "The same can be said of people."

Killian clenches his jaw. Of course. David watches over Emma in a similar vein to the way that Emma watches over Henry. The argument in the hall earlier had shown Killian how fiercely protective David was of her. Perhaps Gold wasn't the only one to watch out for. "If you've come to scold me about Miss Swan-"

"-then you don't know much about her at all," David interrupts. Killian raises an eyebrow at that, and David smiles ruefully. "She can pick her own fights, she doesn't need me-or anyone else-doing it for her."

Killian strokes Battle's nose absently. "Aye, everyone from here to Dublin gathered as much with how she shouted me down this morning."

David's lips curl up briefly, and he shifts to fold his arms across his chest. "She has her reasons for shouting, and if we're very good we might even get to hear them someday."

Killian grunted. As often as he lied to himself, some things weren't worth the trouble and this was one of them. Perhaps it had been foolish to bum-rush the judge and declare his solidarity, but all the saints and his mother's soul would have guilted him into a confession sooner rather than later if he hadn't. It was bad form to leave a person to the wolves when you had a hand in their deed-and driving the getaway car was more than having a hand in it.

David shifted again. "Just… She's no delicate flower, but just walk careful around her, alright?"

Killian nods. Her secretive smiles in the moonlight the night before had said as much. "Aye, she told me some last night. I picked up on some of the rest thanks to Gold. It sounds like it's quite the tale to hear."

David makes a disbelieving noise. "It's not my story to tell."

There's a moment of silence that threatens to stretch into an awkward pause. Thankfully, Battle thumps her head against Killian again and he takes that as a sign to get going. "All right, _a mhuirnín_, let's go. You and your sire will be the death of me."

He leads Battle out of the stall. David offers to lend a hand with Mongrel, who is waiting in an uncharacteristically patient manner next door, and Killian accepts. David notices the way Killian looks around a bit more than necessary as they walk to the trailer and chuckles. "I saw Gold leave already, if you were worried."

"Just trying to keep my bits attached for a time longer…"

"That short list is getting longer, is it?" David ribs him.

"Not if I can help it," Killian mutters, and he tugs on Battle's lead line to pick up the pace.

With thinning patience and a lot of Gaelic curses, they get the horses loaded. Killian climbs in the cab of the truck and David slaps the door to get his attention. Killian rolls the window down. "Remember what I said about my sister," David tells him.

Killian glances upwards, praying for strength. The picture he's painted of her becomes more layered and less clear with every passing day. Perhaps life would be easier to toss it away and start fresh. "Is this whole bloody town related to her in some way? You lot inbreed worse than the nobility."

One corner of David's mouth ticks up. "Still not my story to tell," he says. "Ask her, if she ever chooses to speak to you again."

"I'll endeavor to remember."

"She'll probably bite your head off for it though."

_Shite_. As much as he hates leaving without the upper hand, his ego has had enough bruising for one day. Killian cranks the ignition and throws the truck into first, not quite leaving fast enough to escape the sound of David's chuckling.

-/-

Leaving her professional calm face on all day and throughout dinner was exhausting. If David or Mary Margaret asked if she was feeling okay one more time, she would literally explode. Then Leo would _definitely_ need therapy, and the shitty life insurance policy she had probably wouldn't cover the costs of a funeral _and _lifelong therapy, and then the farm would go downhill as David and Mary Margaret struggled to support their traumatized child. And somewhere, out in the universe, what remained of Emma Swan would _know_ and feel awful about her brother losing his family's legacy all because his foster-sister couldn't get a hold on her anger issues.

Luckily, farm chores provide two necessary solutions. First, she's alone. Mary Margaret's rescues are cared for and maintained on volunteer power. Emma had happily volunteered to do all of the evening mucking and feeding for them herself. Second, cleaning up after and feeding ten large animals is strenuous work. As she finishes the third stall, Emma can already feel her arms quivering and the knots in her chest vanishing.

A small part of her says she's also doing this to repay her family for letting her crash with them, as well as an apology for causing problems the night before, and maybe to provide her with a chance to think about why she's so angry. The larger part, the part that's still ablaze with the injustice of it all, says it's a good distraction from thinking about her feelings-which it might be, if she wasn't so used to the work by now that she could probably do it in her sleep.

There's dirt on her face and arms, straw in her hair, and even the rough work gloves can't fully protect her hands from new blisters forming as she finishes the fifth stall. She pauses for a moment to wipe at her forehead with her arm. The bruises on her knuckles are throbbing in time with the blisters on her palms. "Definitely gone soft…" she mutters to herself.

"I'll say," Regina's voice echoes down the row.

Emma looks up sharply. "What are you doing here, Regina?"

Regina looks odd in a hoodie emblazoned with Bowdoin's polar bear mascot, old jeans, and work boots. Emma's seen her hundreds of times in working clothes, but it's never as normal as the lawyer getup. "Making sure Henry's still got a big sister who promised to go riding with him tomorrow," Regina tells her.

Emma rolls her eyes and lifts the handles of her wheelbarrow. "I'm fine," she says, heading into the next stall.

"Really? Because the little display from earlier today tells another story," Regina counters.

"Yeah, well, you'd be kind of pissed off too if someone called you a slut and a gold-digger, blamed you for turning their kid into a psychopath, and then went crying to their daddies when you socked 'em in the jaw," Emma grumbled.

Regina seemed content to stand by and watch as Emma got to work. She leans against the stall door, her hands tucked in the hoodie's pocket. "You're assuming I haven't been called those things and worse. And you know what they say about assuming."

"Got it, I'm an ass, thanks."

"Well at least you're open to the idea."

Emma grinds her teeth together in frustration, glaring up at her friend as she sifted the shavings. "I'm assuming you have another point besides pissing me off?"

Regina shrugs. "No, that's entirely why I'm here."

It's even more irritating when Emma's bullshit detector doesn't go off. "Any particular reason," she grunts, hefting the load into the wheelbarrow, "you're hellbent on pissing me off today?"

Another shrug. "It didn't seem like you'd had enough of a fight earlier-mostly because I don't think I've ever seen someone's switch flip from anger to arousal outside of a porno so quickly. I could call Jones over here right now if you two wanted to finish what you started."

"Get out, Regina."

"No, I don't think I will," she says, and Emma grips the fork tighter. "Tell me, how screwed would you have been if I hadn't gotten to Spencer first this morning? Out of a job and banned from the grounds I bet, and a higher fine on top of that. I really appreciated the knock earlier, by the way, knowing the efforts I put in were so underappreciated made going in to the office late so much easier on me."

"Shut up," Emma grinds out. "I fixed what I said."

"Ah, but the first thing was 'I', because it's always about you, isn't it Emma?"

Her hands ache from how hard she's gripping the shaving fork. "I fucked up, alright? I get mad, I do that. Clearly, as this morning's bullshit proves."

Regina tosses her head slightly; her hair is escaping from its ponytail and into her face. "Yes, and why did you get so mad? You brought that all on yourself. I had Jones get you out of there, and fifteen minutes later you're back and punching Gold in the face. You were supposed to leave. If you'd just listened-"

Emma throws the fork on the ground, the clatter of wood on concrete ringing through the stable. "All you gave me was a few minutes to get my head on straight and then do what needed to be done!"

"It wasn't necessary, Emma!"

"What, and letting everyone else decide how Gold should be punished is?! _I_ was the one under attack, _I_ get to decide how it's done!"

It enrages her further with how calm Regina is. "No, you don't, because then things like this happen. Then you get mad and flustered about money and thinking other people are running your life for you, when the reality is all we're trying to is help you."

Emma scoffs. "Right, because helping me is about coming down here and yelling at me after the fact."

"When you're being an ass? Absolutely," Regina snaps, her calm facade fracturing. "You're too busy feeling sorry for yourself for getting caught breaking the rules and getting called out on it. _Yes_, Gold was out of line, but we were handling it. So, much like your little tête-à-tête with Jones, I'm going to ask you this: what the _hell_ were you thinking?"

Emma furiously opens her mouth to respond, and then the weight of the question hits her. Her resolve snaps and she closes her mouth again. Her fists unclench and her shoulders relax a bit. "I…"

Regina sighs, and her head falls back for a moment. She's calm again when she looks at Emma again. "Emma, I'm not angry with you. In your shoes, I probably would have done the same. But I want you to just… stop and _think_ for a minute next time. Actions have consequences, and it's by the grace of me that your ass isn't in a cell adjacent to your ex's right now. Sometimes you need to just… let other people handle things. People who know what they're doing and aren't as emotionally involved as you are. And you need to _trust_ people, trust they'll do it right and the way you would want to. Even restorative justice has a mediator."

Emma feels like she's shrinking. She looks down at the floor. Regina's meaning is clear: Emma needs to learn to deal with her control issues-and her anger issues. It's not going to be an easy or short process, and she almost groans at the thought of it, but holds it in. More, she hates having to apologize. "You came in here and maneuvered a whole fight with me, just to make me realize I need to grow up and share my toys," she grumbles instead, bending over to grab her shaving fork.

She glances over at Regina, whose grin is malicious. "Not bad, eh?"

Emma shakes her head and gets back to work. Regina watches her for another minute before pushing off the stall entrance and walking down the row. Emma can hear her pacing and pausing at turns as she finishes the stall and moves on to the next one. She's on the ninth stall when Regina calls down the row, "Is Mary Margaret seriously keeping this horse's name?"

Emma pokes her head out the stall door. "Which one?"

Even thirty feet away she can see the long-suffering look on Regina's face, one eyebrow raised. "Uncle Tickles," she reads off the brass nameplate. The Sahara wasn't as dry as that delivery.

A startled laugh escapes her. "Oh, no. That must be one of the new ones," Emma says.

"I feel the urge to get a doll and ask the breeder to point to where someone hurt him," Regina comments.

Emma walks down the row. Mary Margaret has found some interesting strays over the year, but this might top the list if it's true-and right now she's not sure if Regina's just trying to lighten the mood or not. "You're serious, that's what it says."

"Plain as day."

She should have known Regina couldn't make up such a thing on the spot. And it's funnier up close. Even Regina breaks her serious facade, and soon Emma's sides hurt from laughing so much. "That is," she wheezes, "the _worst_ name I've come across in all my years in this business."

They miss the footsteps coming into the barn, and they only look up when Mary Margaret calls down to them, "What's so funny?"

Her bemused expression just makes Emma and Regina laugh harder. Emma's grasping the stall door for support, and every time she thinks she's calm and she tries to look her sister-in-law in the face, the giggles come back full force. Regina eventually points to the nameplate, and Mary Margaret's expression turns to full confusion. "What? What's so funny about Uncle Tickles?"

Well, that certainly doesn't help. It takes ages for them to calm down, enough that Mary Margaret gives up trying to talk to them and goes to muck out the last stall herself.

* * *

><p>After Regina leaves, Emma picks bits of straw out of her hair and goes to shower. Her hands ache even in the warm water, and washing her hair is a nightmare for her arms. She leaves her hair in a towel after, hanging out with Leo in their pajamas and making a city with Legos for Godzilla to destroy. David and Mary Margaret are still down in the barns, so she puts her nephew to bed by herself. "Aunt Emma, Daddy has a story," Leo tells her, and points to the book on the night stand.<p>

Emma picks it up. "_Peter Pan_, huh? What's your favorite part?"

"Flying to Never-everland," Leo says promptly. "I wish I could fly, Aunt Emma."

He rolls over, clutching his stuffed lion, and Emma smooths his hair. "Me too, kiddo."

"Daddy says you can fly on a horse. But I'm too little," he says, punctuating with an enormous sigh.

She stifles a giggle. "You can, and someday you will."

"Waiting is ha-ard."

"I know, kiddo. But it's like waiting for your birthday or Christmas. You just have to do it," Emma tells him, and then opens to the bookmark, where Peter flies back from his death in a bird's nest.

It's ironic that she's doling out advice about patience when a few short hours ago she was being lectured on the same subject. She ponders over that as Leo falls asleep just before Wendy decides it's time to go back to England. She sets the book on the table and kisses Leo's forehead gently, turning down the light.

David, covered in grime and heading for his own shower, nods to her as she leaves Leo's room, and she points upstairs, mouthing a _goodnight_ before heading up to her room.

Her phone is charged, with no new messages waiting. She sighs as she slips under the covers. It's expected, but somehow disappointing as well? She shouldn't be disappointed, not after the way she'd acted all day. Still... her thumb hovers over the messages box. She hates apologizing, but she hates it more over a text message. She remembers Regina's little speech from earlier and Emma sighs gustily.

'_I don't remember how I got the tattoo, or what it means, or why I thought it was a good idea. I woke up one day and my wrist hurt like a bitch._' she taps out, and she hits send.

She sets her phone aside and grabs the book she's been trying to read for the last eighteen months. He probably keeps farm hours, and if she'll hear from him at all it won't be until morning. But she's barely made it a page before her phone vibrates. '_There's a story there, Swan._'

She snorts. '_Yeah. It's a real fucking downer._'

Another few minutes pass. Then, '_Perhaps you'll share it with me someday._'

Emma's mouth threatens to curl into a smile. '_Maybe someday, Jones._'


	8. April 22-26

**TRIGGER WARNINGS: This chapter contains serious discussion about eating disorders and unhealthy weight management. Please tread carefully.**

* * *

><p>A little bit of rain isn't enough to stop the races, but it's enough to stop several trainers from showing up on Tuesday. Every pick, every parade, every winner's circle, Emma frowns a little deeper when unfamiliar faces grace the paddock. Even David isn't around, which is most concerning because she'd seen no sign of him that morning at home either. "Alright, I give up. Where the hell is everyone today?" she finally asks as a man who isn't Killian leads one of Regina's horses out of the winner's circle.<p>

Ruby flicks the screen on her phone. "It's baby day," she says, tapping away.

Emma waits patiently, eyebrows raised, until Ruby looks up. Ruby rolls her eyes, scoffing, and shoves her phone in Emma's face. "For someone who grew up on a horse farm, you're very bad at this."

It takes a few moments for the date to register in Emma's brain, and then she lets her head drop back as it clicks. "Right," she says, drawing out the vowel as Ruby takes her phone away. "And I didn't 'grow up' on a horse farm."

Ruby smirks, tapping away at the screen again. "Right, you only lived on one for, what was it, ten years?"

"Eight," Emma corrects her automatically.

Emma finds no comfort in this information, though, because it means she's more likely to run into _him_ when she goes to pick up Henry from the Horn. Her plan of clocking out as soon as possible and not quite breaking the speed limit so as to get the kid and dash back home-all for the sole purpose of not seeing Killian Jones in person-fell to pieces.

Seeing him in person means actually apologizing. Actually apologizing means admitting she's wrong, and admitting she's wrong is a hard pill to swallow.

Emma's brimming with nerves when she pulls up to the Horn. She knows Henry's cleaning in the tack room, he'd texted her, but Killian might be around too. Should she just text Henry to come out, or get over herself and walk inside? She debates with herself for five minutes before calling herself twelve kinds of idiot, cutting the engine, and trekking up the gravel.

She pauses in the doorway. The familiar scents ease the nervous knots in her chest a little, but the once-familiar shedrow makes her heart heavy. Being out in the exercise fields is one thing, but this… She'd spent quite a lot of time here in her younger days. Neal's (and Graham's) presence is everywhere. Neal had taught her how to shod a horse over there. They'd once hidden from his father and Malcolm up in that hayloft. Graham had caught Emma and Neal kissing in that stall when they were seventeen. She'd spent an entire afternoon untangling reins in the tack room with Graham to buy his silence.

Now, Emma pauses outside the tack room door, the scent of cleaning polish heavy in the air. If she tries, she can still hear his lilting voice teasing her about it, the possibility of merging the Gold and Nolan enterprises if she and Neal ever got married. She can't remember what she'd said in response, if she'd said anything. Most her memory of that day was silent humiliation and anger. And now Graham was dead, because Neal _had_ wanted to marry her. Graham had found out about Neal's little drugging scheme, and he'd paid the price for that knowledge. "I'm sorry, Graham…"

"Emma?"

She jumps and her heart stops for a moment. It can't be… Emma turns, and closes her eyes (in relief or resignation, she's not sure) when she sees it's Killian. Part of her is aware that his accent is similar to Graham's, and she realizes she'd never bothered to ask where Graham was from. He's just… he was just Graham.

Emma takes a few breaths to steady herself, forgetting that she's supposed to be nervous about apologizing. "Hi. Sorry, you startled me there," she says, laughing lightly.

"You looked as if you'd seen a ghost," he says, leaning against the wall.

She smiles tightly. "Yeah. There's a lot of them around here."

Killian scratches behind his ear. "Ah. Right, the whole…"

"...thing. Yeah."

There's a fleeting thought about why Henry hasn't come out yet and Emma realizes that he probably has headphones on. The awkward moment stretches into an awkward silence. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, unable to look Killian in the face and focusing instead on the silver chain around his neck. He scratches his jaw and clears his throat. Before he can speak, she blurts out, "Look, about yesterday, I-"

She looks him in the eye, and it's a mistake, not just because of how painfully blue they are but also because of the way he looks at her with such empathy. She swallows her next words. He knows, he _has_ to know how difficult this is for her, and what yesterday meant-why else would he be looking at her like that? "Swan, it's all right," he says, and his voice is soft and kind, better than what she feels she deserves. "I… may have stepped in more than proper. I merely felt that… that I played a part in it. I realize now that I should have kept my distance and-"

"No, you don't have to apologize, I should be the one-" Emma cuts him off, shaking her head.

He reaches out and grips her wrist lightly. Emma tenses for a moment. "Love, you already apologized last night," Killian tells her. There's a crease between his brows for a moment, and then he lets her wrist go.

She tilts her head, looking him over carefully, and her bullshit detector doesn't go off. She opens her mouth wordlessly, trying to think of something to say. He _knows_. He _gets _it. Her heart feels lighter, and a hesitant smile begins on her lips. "I didn't think…"

His smile is sincere. "Truth be told, I didn't do it all for you, or for your secrets," Killian says. "My mother's soul would have haunted me for all my days if I hadn't confessed."

Emma raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. "Oh, I get it," she says loftily. "Guilty conscience. You'd never last under torture, Jones."

"Who's to say I haven't before?" he challenges her, grinning. She rolls her eyes, which makes him laugh, and after a moment, Emma finds herself smiling, too. The tension in the room evaporates and she can see that even he relaxes. He gestures to her hand. "How are you feeling, Swan?"

Emma holds it up: her knuckles are purplish-red. They'll be purplish-green in a few days. "Peachy."

Killian hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "I have some liniment in the office."

She smiles wryly. "I told you yesterday, Jones. I'm not one of your horses to be coddled and sweet-talked. Speaking of... It's baby day," she says, trying to be conversational, "You and everyone else decided to take today off to crowd around an ultrasound machine. I take it congratulations are in order?"

Killian shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid there's just business to attend to today. I think I'm the only shedrow in the county that Lucas didn't visit. Regina wants to breed Heart next season, but this year we're staying out of the foaling business."

"Too much too soon?" Emma wants to know.

Killian makes a few noncommittal noises, his hand wavering. "I find it's better to get my footing anywhere before we get to the business of babymaking. Usually I do the planning and then leave before the fun part begins. I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice."

"Oh, I dunno. I find it's pretty easy to pick up again. It's like riding a bike," she says, fighting to keep her expression neutral.

He'd left himself wide open, and after all of the shots he's taken at her she can't afford to let this one go. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as he raises his eyebrows in surprise, and then he drops one as he realizes her implication. She also notices that his eyes have a way of lighting up before suggesting anything dirty. "Oh yes? I've found, Swan, that _assistance_ is often necessary when relearning to ride a bike."

He sticks the last syllable, and Emma raises an eyebrow of her ow. When his voice drops like that, dripping honey and sweet intentions, she finds she likes the warmth that comes with it. It's the result of this combination-his eyes and his enunciation and the tone of his voice-that she can't seem to find her own voice. Instead of responding, she just shoots him a self-satisfied smile and goes into the tack room.

She gets Henry's attention, and he quickly cleans up. When they leave, they find Killian lingering in the doorway to the barn. Henry waves goodbye, racing off to the Bug, and Emma follows him down the driveway at a more normal pace. "Good_bye_, Mr. Jones," she calls over her shoulder. There's not a hint of a swing in her hips, nope.

"'Killian' will do!" he calls after her, and Emma gets into the car, smiling.

* * *

><p>"And Mr. Mason says it's about the rise of communism in Russia, but it sounds super boring," Henry complains as he and Emma head into the Point's main stable.<p>

Emma shrugs, her hands in her back pockets. "I remember liking _Animal Farm_. Don't judge a book before you read it."

Henry rolls his eyes. "I guess. It has to be better than _Our Town_."

Emma laughs. "Sounds like the curriculum hasn't changed at all since I've been in school."

David waves from the end of the row. Emma hesitates for a moment before continuing down to him-he's by the foaling stalls. She has to count to ten, letting Henry go ahead of her. At ten, she shrugs off the unease creeping up her spine and tells herself to get over it. "Hey, David."

Henry peers over the side of the stall. "Hi, Dr. Lucas."

Emma can't see much from her angle, and she steps around Henry to the door. Dr. Lucas smiles tightly, her eyes not leaving the ultrasound machine. "The Mills boy. Haven't you shipped off to Kentucky yet?"

Henry sighs dramatically. "You see me every Saturday, Dr. Lucas."

David claps him on the shoulder, chuckling. "And his mother insists he finish school first, much to his chagrin."

"I'm wearing her down."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Emma retorts, leaning over the stall door and resting her chin on her arms. She smiles when she sees which horse is Dr. Lucas' current patient.

The roan mare tosses her head and whickers at the sight of Emma. She smiles wider. "Hey there, pretty girl," she says in a soft tone of voice she never uses with people. She ignores Henry's sniggering.

Princess has more or less been 'her' horse since David's father had bought her when Emma was sixteen. Emma had only been with the Nolans for a few months at that point and she was still surly and reluctant to engage. The hope was that giving Emma sole responsibility over something would help her recover from her time in the foster system. And she'd initially been stubborn and balked at the responsibility-not to mention the name. Emma can still hear the argument she'd had with Mr. Nolan over 'getting her' a horse named _Enchanted Princess_. Eventually the two-year old filly had won her over. Emma had been in charge of Princess up until she'd left Storybrooke.

Now, the fourteen-year old mare is being wiped down by the vet. "Congratulations," Dr. Lucas tells David dryly. "It's a horse."

Henry giggles. "I leave for five years and you get my baby pregnant," Emma teases David, who rolls his eyes.

"This is her third foal, don't even start."

Emma's brows knit together in consternation, trying to remember if she'd been told about a second. She remembers the first, when she was twenty and practically slept in the barn through Christmas, anxious and excited all at once for the colt to be born. Surely David would have told her about a second foal. "And probably her last," Dr. Lucas injects. "A good broodmare can breed for a few more years, but with her age and history, I'm concerned about how this foaling will go. I said last time that breeding again would have risks."

Emma looks at David incredulously. There's a second of fear on his face. "_David!_"

David composes himself. He glares at Dr. Lucas while speaking to Emma, "She said any risks were_ low_ risks, and it's been three years so it's okay to try again."

Emma frowns. "Well that explains why you didn't tell me you weren't coming in today. What happened?" David hesitates a second too long and she pushes herself off the door. "David, tell me what happened."

"The foal died," David tells her quietly. "I wasn't there, it happened overnight, she went into labor sooner than I thought. We think it was hypoxia during the birth."

She blanches. She remembers enough to put the hows and whys together, a fraction of a percent of a chance in any foaling. Henry grabs Emma's hand. She doesn't realize she's shaking until he squeezes. "Emma."

Emma looks at Dr. Lucas. "I was going to take her riding today," she says, feeling small.

The vet peers at Emma over her glasses. It's reassuring. "Doctor's orders: you ride her until you can't get a saddle on her comfortably," she says sternly. Emma knows this, she does, her brain just has to catch up to the rest of her. "Don't push her too hard, but don't pussyfoot around her either. She'll be healthier and have a better shot at keeping this one come December if you do. I'll let you know when that changes."

Emma swallows hard and nods, squeezing Henry's hand. "Go get one of Mary Margaret's horses ready, kid, and I'll meet you outside."

She's extra careful with Princess as she saddles up, talking to her softly the whole time. The mare's ears flick back towards her occasionally, as if she's really listening intently. Emma's logical brain says it's fine, and that Dr. Lucas would have said if something was wrong and forbidden her from riding until after the foal was born, but Princess is her baby. As much as she'd kicked up a fuss about it at first, Princess is as much hers as she is David's.

Which is why him keeping the foal's death from her hurts so much.

"Dammit," Emma grumbles, swiping at her eyes and leading Princess out to meet Henry.

If she's quieter than she may have been otherwise during their ride, Henry doesn't mention it. He fills the space instead, chattering on about his friends-he mentions a girl named Grace a few times, and part of Emma files that information away for future use-and plans for summer vacation. They're turning back to the farm when he asks, "You're not going to the Derby, are you?"

Emma raises her eyebrow at him. "Why would I?"

Henry shrugs. "We're going. Mom and Robin said something about David and Mary Margaret, so I thought…"

She hums sardonically. "Yeah, hasn't been mentioned. I'm probably on babysitting duty."

"Oh, come on, I think they would have at least _asked _you to babysit. What, are you going to just wake up and surprise! There's Leo, wearing the spaghetti bowl and eating Cheerios out of a box like a caveman, completely unsupervised."

He startles a laugh out of her. "Oh please, like the first thing he'd do wouldn't be to run down to the barns. He _is_ David's kid."

"True."

After a moment, Emma glances at Henry sidelong. "So, speaking of Kentucky…"

Henry groans. "Please don't."

"Sorry, kid, big sister privileges. So what's with school, anyway? I thought you were going as soon as you could."

Henry's quiet for a bit. Emma lets him stew over his answer. She'd figured he would have brought it up in the weeks she's been home, and the fact that he hasn't makes her wonder. There's 'let them come to you with a problem', and then there's 'ignore it and hope it goes away', and at this point she feels it's starting to become the latter. Enough time passes that she thinks he's just going to ignore her after all, but then he speaks. "I don't know if I'm small enough," Henry says quietly.

"Height or weight?" She's seen plenty of jocks Henry's height, or even taller.

"Weight. And Mom… She said something to Dr. Hopper about it once during a joint session, and I got sent home with a shit ton of brochures warning about the dangers of 'eating disorders in the adolescent male'," he says sarcastically, going to far as to make air quotes.

"Henry, did-"

"_No_, Emma, God. It was to scare me away from it. They were stupid."

Emma's not sure her heart can take any more anxiety today. Part of her knows he's just reacting like any teenager whose parent is meddling in their life. But the other part never heard him say 'I'm not small enough so I'm not going to do it'. And that part is louder. "It's not stupid, and I swear to God, Henry, if you become bulimic I'm dragging you to a clinic myself."

Henry snorts, and Emma snaps.

From there, it's a heated conversation all the way back to the barn, with Emma dumping stats and concerns and second-hand stories over Henry's barbs and both of their frustrations mounting. It's _that many calories is not enough for anyone to function, much less a teenage boy_ and _what, so I'm just supposed to give up my dream, is that it _and _scars on your fingers_ and _not going to do it, not looking for you to fix it_ and _God, would you just listen to me_ and _I already have a mom, stop acting like her._ They're almost at the barn when she finally reins in to a halt, both of them trading glares. "Look, kid, I know it's what you wanted, but you can't kill yourself over a dream. It's one thing to drop out of school and go get your apprenticeship and a GED, it's another to make yourself sick and _die_."

He doesn't say anything, only dismounts and leads his horse back to Mary Margaret's stables, and Emma lets him go. He's allowed to be angry with her. And Lord knows she's been angry enough in the last few days to know when someone needs their space. As she leads Princess back inside, she pulls out her phone and texts Regina to have someone pick up Henry.

The response is almost immediate. _'I thought he'd be with you through dinner?'_

_'Change of plans. I kind of pissed him off.'_

Emma counts and she makes it to thirteen when her phone starts ringing. "I talked to him about jockey school," Emma says in lieu of greeting. It's better to head Regina off instead of letting her gather steam. "And he told me about the thing with Hopper."

Regina sighs on the other end. "Tell him Robin will be there in forty-five minutes."

"If he's speaking to me."

In the end, Emma has David relay the message-not only does she know David will be received, but Emma can also use his guilt over not telling her about Princess to her advantage for a while. Emma stays in the shadows of the shedrow when Robin's car comes up the drive, watching as Henry sulks out to it and gets in. She steps into the doorway as the car door slams, and she lifts her hand. She can see Robin nod in her direction, but Henry's not looking. Emma twists her mouth into a grim line as Robin drives off.

Henry will be fine in a day or so.

She hopes.

-/-

There's a storm in the air on Saturday. Killian frequently glances at the sky, waiting for it to break, waiting for the stewards to call the day off. There's no lightning, just a snarl of dodgy clouds, so the day goes without a hitch until mid-afternoon when the sky finally opens up on them and everyone is forced inside. At the first fork of lightning, the rest of the day is cancelled, leaving everyone to scramble getting their charges back to the stables and keeping them calm. Killian finds solace in the fact that most of Malcolm's and Regina's horses have been trained to remain calm against sudden calamity, and he pities his fellows who are dodging hooves left and right.

It's a light end-of-day for him, not having to trailer anyone home. There's no point to it, not when they're racing early next week as well. And with Will in New York with three of the others, his evening will be light as well. Killian rubs Pan down with a drying cloth, absently listening to the chatter in the row. "Emma, he'll be fine," he hears Regina Hood say, the familiar cadence of her heels clicking closer.

"He hasn't said a word to me since Tuesday, it's just a little weird."

The corners of Killians mouth tick up at the sound of Emma's voice. They haven't had the chance to speak again since Tuesday, though a few texts have been exchanged in the interim. She's witty, he's found, when he's peeled back her armor-or when she takes it off voluntarily. He's had to make himself stick to a few messages here and there, or else he'd get nothing done in favor of this bizarre flirty-friendship they're developing. "He's fifteen," Regina replies drily. "If you can't outlast a sullen teenager's sulking, you're not the person I thought you were."

Ah, they're discussing the boy. Come to think of it, Killian has noticed Henry seems less… chipper these last few days than he has been in the last few weeks. If anything is said in the next moment, he misses it due to the crash of thunder outside and the cries of frightened horses up and down the stable. When it's quieter, he hears a less than ladylike noise, and then Emma asks, "When are you guys leaving for Kentucky?"

"Wednesday. Roland wants to see the parade on Thursday, and I thought we'd at least tour the jockey academy with Henry on Friday. That might help or hurt, I don't know," Regina says with a sigh.

"Maybe it'll do him some good. Perspective or something."

"He's had his eye on that particular prize for so long, I just don't know how he'll take to dropping it-if that's what he chooses to do."

Killian listens with interest. He's missed a page here or there, it seems, but that's the price for keeping your nose out of business that's not yours. It's a pity, Henry would make a fine jock. There's a knock on the stall door behind him, and he doesn't even need to look to see who it is. "Hello, Swan."

He does look, though, glancing over his shoulder. She's leaning around the entrance, giving him a close-lipped smile as her eyes trace a line from his head to his boots and back up again. "Hey there, eavesdropper."

He scoffs, running the cloth down Pan's flank one last time. "I've done nothing of the sort, _a mhuirnín_. Hardly a man's fault when a conversation can be heard from here to the capital."

She looks a bit bewildered at the Gaelic endearment but shakes her head. "In this storm? Right. So, you ditching town next weekend too?"

Killian slaps the cloth against his palm lightly, strolling up to the door. She steps back and he takes her place. She fixes him with a skeptical glare and he grins in return. As much as he likes their friendly banter, the flustered steps she takes and the range of emotions on her face are more enjoyable. "Not much for personal space, are you?" Emma asks, finally stopping and they're inches apart.

"Not at all," he chirps.

She fixes him with a glare, but there's a glint of amusement in her eyes. "You gonna answer my question, or just get cozy?"

"Why not both?" Killian asks, and he leans closer to her for good measure, speaking low-just for her. "No, I will not be vacating the premises next weekend. I take it by your tone that you will be remaining in town as well?"

"That's right," she says dryly. They're close enough that he can feel the puff of air from her speaking on his cheek and smell the strawberry-flavored something she'd eaten earlier. "And I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over and watch the races, but seeing as how you're already being really inappropriate _and_ I'm babysitting Leo all weekend, I'm reconsidering."

Whatever he had been expecting of this encounter, this is entirely new territory-interesting territory, even. He could hardly count it as a romantic encounter, if the Nolan lad will be there, but it's intriguing that she should ask him to keep her company.

There's another flash of lightning and a clap of thunder, and Emma jumps a little at the sound. He remembers how she jumped at Spencer's outburst earlier in the week and makes a note of it to consider later. Now, he straightens and takes a few steps back, holding his hands up in innocence. "How is this inappropriate?"

Emma snorts. "Is it too late to purchase Leo a ticket as well?" Regina asks wryly from where she's propped up against the wall behind Emma. Her grin is wolfish. "Or will you two be putting him to bed early?"

Killian grins as Emma shoots her a dirty look. "Now this. This is craic," he tells Regina, pointing between himself and her. "I like this. We should do this more often."

Emma squeaks in outrage, which only makes him grin wider. "I hate both of you," she grumbles and steps around him.

"You don't," Regina calls after her retreating back.

Emma flips them the bird, which only makes Killian and Regina start to laugh. "I hope you lose all your bets," Emma fires back, walking down the row.

Regina is nonplussed. "I hope all Mary Margaret leaves you to eat is pasta!"

"I hope you get mud on your Gucci dresses!"

Oh and she's a sight to see, fired up when he's not the direct cause of it-or even in that case. Walking that fine line between temper and annoyance will be a challenge, but Killian Jones isn't a man afraid of a challenge. "I'll be there round ten, shall I?" he calls, grinning.

The lightning and thunder highlight the shadows and make the walls shake. She tosses her hair, calling over her shoulder, "You'll get my foot in your ass around ten!"

Regina pats him on the shoulder as he chuckles. "We should definitely do this more often," she says.

-/-

"I can't believe I did that," Emma mumbles, her arm thrown over her face.

Rain beats against the attic window and across the roof. Leo's down for the night, David's out in the barn with Phillip going over procedure while he and Mary Margaret are out of town. Mary Margaret is stretched out next to Emma on her bed, flipping through a magazine. "You're a grown woman. Just don't neglect my son, or I'll have to kick your ass."

"I did not invite him over for-for whatever you're implying. Which is not what we'll be doing. We're watching the Derby and that's it."

Her sister-in-law giggles. "Right, you invite every man you've only known a few weeks over for a day of betting and watching a five-year old while you also have the house mostly to yourself."

Emma grumbles, flipping over onto her side to face her. "He's good company."

"He's nice. And funny. And handsome. And _single_."

"_Mary_."

Mary Margaret drops the magazine. "Emma, if you're looking for someone to talk you out of this, the damage is done. If you want to renege or something, you have to do it yourself. But I have a feeling you don't want to, you're just getting scared because this is the first guy you're interested in since Neal." Emma's pointed silence stretches too long, the sound of the rain filling the room, and Mary Margaret gasps. "You never said!"

"And you never said what happened to Princess," Emma retorts. "I think we're even. There was this guy Walsh, but it didn't work out. He wanted too much that I wasn't ready for."

Mary Margaret hums in interest, picking up the _Better Home and Gardens_ again. "Two for two on that front then…"

Emma reaches behind her for ammo and whaps her with a decorative pillow. "_I_ didn't even know Neal still wanted to marry me."

Mary Margaret takes the pillow from her and drops it on Emma's head. "To be fair, I don't think any of us did, not until it was too late." She flips a page in the magazine, pausing for a moment. "Do you think we need new patio furniture?"

Emma half-shrugs, rolling onto her back. "I don't know, I haven't seen what you've got."

Emma's phone buzzes, and Mary Margaret smirks. Emma whaps her with the pillow again and picks it up while her sister-in-law laughs. '_Shall I bring snacks, Swan?_'

"Who is it?" Mary Margaret asks, a little too innocently.

Emma's fighting a losing battle with her frown. "Shut up," she says, tapping out a reply to Killian.

-/-

Her reply makes him smile. _'If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. Themed food, hats, the whole 9 yards.'_

_'What is it with you Americans and that saying?'_

_'idk. What's with half the things you say?'_

Before he can think of a reply, his phone buzzes again. _'Just bring something themed.'_

Another message arrives a fraction of a second later. _'And a hat.'_

He smiles. Her texting habits say a lot about her. He sets his phone on the nightstand and lays back in bed, combing his hair with his fingers. A light work evening-shortened more by the rain-may have been a rare treat, but having an evening where he didn't have anything to do but overthink the implications of Emma's invitation was less than welcome. Did it mean something? Was she interested, or was it friendly? It could go either way, really, if their interactions were anything to go on. Then again, the boy _would _be there, so that was a point against anything more than friendly. Perhaps she just wanted the company of an adult for the day and found he was suitable enough. _Suitable enough, that's me_, he thinks, tossing again and warming the sheets further.

Si jumps up onto the bed, yowling at him for attention. He smiles, obliging her by scratching under her chin. "What do you think, _a chroí_? Am I thinking too much about it?"

She chirps at him and begins to purr, curling up next to him. He chuckles. "That's always your answer, darling."

It's not a bad one though. Sleep on it, and deal with it later. Am jumps up to join them, and takes over his other pillow. He turns over, careful not to disturb either of them, and fixes his pillow. Sleep doesn't come easy, but at least the rain is pleasant to listen to until he drifts off.


	9. April 30-May 3

It takes four days for Emma's nerves to get the best of her.

It happens while Mary Margaret is running all over the house, making sure everything is packed or turned off (never mind that Emma and Leo will both be home in the interim) or cleaned (again, people will be home) or thrown out ("You'll be gone four days. Seriously."). Emma keeps Leo busy during all of this, playing the bad guy to his Ninjago hero and claiming all sorts of rules for how she didn't 'die' during each of his attacks. "Sorry, kid, snakes get to come back to life _seven_ times," she teases, getting up and lifting him high in the air as he screams in laughter.

"No fair, Aunt Emma!"

"Hey, you said ninjas get to be double-triple ghosts, snakes get eight lives!" she says, and whips the blanket off his bed, wrapping her squirming nephew in it. "Oh no, looks like the snake killed the ninja, we win the Earth forever."

She drops Leo on his bed, and he wriggles out of the blanket, brandishing his foam sword. "Nuh-uh, double-triple ghosts can't be killed, and we get _super powers_ to forever-kill the Serpentine!"

Leo whacks her in the knees with his sword as Mary Margaret comes in. "Leopold James Nolan! We do not ninja-sword our aunts in this house!" she scolds.

Emma winces-he only hit her twice, but that foam sword company grossly underestimated the power of small children. Leo drops the sword, contrite. Mary Margaret crosses her arms. "What do you say?"

"Sorry, Aunt Emma…" he mumbles and hugs her legs.

Emma ruffles his hair before he lets go. "It's okay, Leo. What's up?" she asks Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret glances at her son and then leads Emma into the hallway. She exhales slowly, wringing her hands. "I was just thinking-wondering really-if you had everything you needed to cook for Saturday. I mean, I know it's just going to be the three of you, but what if you didn't have the right ingredients? And are you cooking very much, or is it just a little?" Emma listens with increasing amusement and a little bit of awe as Mary Margaret picks up speed. It's more amazing that she doesn't trip over her words. "I mean, I know it's only three people, well two people really because-let's face it-Leo isn't the most adventurous eater and he'll probably just want a peanut butter sandwich. Oh, shoot, do we have peanut butter? Or bread? Should I run out to the store for you? I mean, I still have a million more things to do around here, but if you had an idea of what you wanted to make, you could give me a list, and in the morning I can run and get some last-minute groceries for you before we leave and-"

Emma grabs Mary Margaret by the shoulders and gives her a little shake to silence her. "Hey. Look at me," she instruct. "We will be fine. If you didn't want Leo to survive on takeout for four days, you shouldn't have left him with me."

Mary Margaret sighs in exasperation, freeing herself from Emma's grip. "I know it'll be good for us, the first grown-up vacation we've taken since Leo was born, but I'm _worried_. And you threatening to feed him pizza for four days doesn't help."

"I didn't say I'd feed him pizza for four days. We can also order Chinese."

"Emma!"

Emma smiles, holding up her hands as Mary Margaret paces in circles. "Okay, apparently the joking thing isn't going to work. But it's still going to be fine. If, somehow, we run out of food in four days I know how to drive to the grocery store, and you're leaving the car seat with me because he still has to go to school. We will have food and be safe about it."

Mary Margaret buries her face in her hands and heaves a sigh. "I know. You're right. You're right and I'm just freaking out. And you'll call the second something happens? Or otherwise? And text? And just let me know nothing's on fire or no one's had to go to the ER or you aren't pregnant or-"

"_Okay_, that's enough of that," Emma interrupts, her heart leaping into her throat. She slings her arm around Mary Margaret's shoulders and brings her back into Leo's room. He's abandoned his ninja ambitions in favor of Dr. Seuss. "Leo, why don't you tell your mom what we're planning on doing while she and your dad are on vacation?"

She slips out of the room as Leo launches into the grand details about what he's going to do at school and how he's going to learn to ride a real horse in the time his parents will be away and how they're going to go to the "jumpoline" place-Emma never agreed to either of those last parts, but she's pretty sure Mary Margaret knows that. Hopefully.

She sits with a groan on the stairs to the attic. _"It's just going to be the three of you."_ Emma doesn't want to think about that, and about how suddenly the rambling old farmhouse-currently housing three adults and a child with room to spare-seems much smaller with the prospect of only herself, Leo, and Killian in it. _"It's just going to be the three of you."_ Shit, and he was coming over early. Would Leo even be alright with just one other person in the house? How was Mary Margaret okay this plan? _"It's just going to be the three of you."_

The way he looked at her sometimes, his gaze soft, a hint of a smile on his parted lips-had she she seriously thought this plan through? Or when that soft smile parted, just a bit, and she could see the way his tongue traced the inside of his lip just before he made some stupid joke.

Oh, she's seriously thought about this.

_"It's just going to be the three of you."_

Fuck.

Her phone can't come out of her pocket fast enough. She starts a new group text. _'Hey, what's everyone doing Saturday? Me and Leo have a standing Derby date. Come over w appropriate food and hats around 10'_

-/-

There are butterflies flitting about in his stomach as Killian mounts the stairs to the Nolans' front porch. He'd told himself all morning that there's no reason to feel nervous about this. It's just two friends watching sports all day. With a child in the house. It's completely innocent.

Laden down with food as he is, he stands dumbfounded at the door, wondering how he's supposed to get inside. He probably should have thought about this a bit more before deciding to make only one trip from the truck to the house-but in his defense, it was starting to rain again and he didn't have an umbrella. His Stetson did nothing to protect the food.

He kicks at the storm door in a vain effort to announce his presence. He looks around for a place to set something down and resigns himself to the suspiciously thin railing when the door opens. "Mr. Jones!"

Killian blinks a few times before he recognizes Anna Adgarssen, the clerk of scales, beaming at him. She holds the door open while relieving him of a tray, talking a mile a minute. "You're just in time, we're deciding on the betting pools. How do you know Emma? Oh, wait, that's a dumb question, you know the Nolans, they probably introduced you. We just met today, isn't she nice? So sweet of her to have a party, Elsa and I were just going to have a quiet day at home-Kristoff is in Chicago, it's playoffs you know, he said they wouldn't be there long enough for me to bother coming along even though we haven't seen each other in a few weeks. Though he's all beardy and hairy now so I'm not exactly complaining about that, you know? But anyway, Elsa gets a text and what do you know? Suddenly we have plans! It's nice to see everyone even when we have the day off work!"

_Everyone?_

His confusion only mounts with this load of information, but other things started to make sense, such as the number of cars outside. Had he misunderstood? Anna beckons him to the dining room, where Emma is rearranging the impressive spread of food. She looks startled for the briefest of moments when she sees him and then grins. "Hey, you made it."

He feels his smile may be forced but she doesn't appear to notice. Maybe he _had_ misunderstood-aside from other people in the house, she's dressed much the same way she had been during their tequila talk. Not that his plaid or jeans were much better, but at least he'd showered and changed since the morning workouts. "Is that banana nut bread?" Emma asks as Anna bustles about to slide his tray of bourbon shrimp somewhere among the rest.

"Fresh-made this morning," Killian says, offering the pan to her.

Emma's eyebrows go up. "You made this yourself?"

There's an itch just under his ear and his hands are still too full to scratch it. "Aye," he says, aware that Anna is watching them. "I'm up early enough with the horses, I had enough time to whip up a few things."

Emma grabs a plastic knife and cuts into the loaf, still balanced on his hand in the pan. The worshipful sound she emits when she bites into the end almost makes him drop the pan, the salad bowl, and possibly himself onto the floor. "Did you know," she says, mouth still full, "that the only thing in the world I might actually commit murder over is banana nut bread?"

Anna slips out of the room, mumbling to herself around what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. Killian's throat feels very dry all of a sudden. He clears it, really wishing he'd set everything down so that blasted itch might stop. "Why do I have a feeling that's not the case?" His bloody voice squeaks like a schoolboy's and damn if she's not fast enough to stop a bit of laughter before she slaps her hand over her mouth.

"Aunt Emma!" the lad's voice yells from the next room. "Ruby's hogging the crayons!"

"I am not!"

"Are too!"

_Thank God_, Killian thinks as the focus shifts from his eejit self to the lad. Emma side-eyes the doorway with a sigh. "We're all in there, set that down and come get ready to lose all your money," she says, sticking the rest of the banana nut slice in her mouth and grabbing a glass from the table.

"A bit early for juleps, isn't it?" he asks, doing as she bid.

"Iced tea and bloody Marys are on the menu this morning. Juleps are later."

As tempting as the Marys are in this moment, he sticks to the tea. "I don't know why you lot call this tea," he says, following her into the living room. "Proper tea is hot and milky, not this sodding sticky sweetness."

"Don't tell it to me, tell it to the South," Emma retorts. "Ruby, share your crayons."

Killian knows only Emma, Leo and Anna out of the six other people in the room. Anna seems to take to the role of hostess much faster than Emma does and makes the introductions. The other bloke is called Victor and he works up in broadcast as well. "I watch you five days a week, of course I know who you are," he jokes when they shake hands, earning a backhanded smack on the legs from the woman on the floor. She's the one coloring with the lad, and he surmises that makes her Ruby.

Elsa is the last to be introduced. Killian recalls seeing her a time or two around the locker rooms and scales. "I'm usually bringing Anna something she left at home. I can't tell you the number of texts I get every week with a list of things she's forgotten," Elsa says when he mentions it. Anna just shrugs without a hint of embarrassment. She then commandeers the coffee table to work out the betting pools, the bubbly friendliness from before slipping behind her professional mask.

As the conversation turns to money (increasingly his least favorite subject these days) Killian finds himself sitting on the floor with Ruby and Leo. Ruby colors in shapes on the brim of a large paper hat. "What's this then?" he asks.

Leo regards him solemnly from under the brim of his baseball cap. "Ruby didn't have a hat. Aunt Emma says you have to wear a hat today so we're making one. Is that your hat?"

There's a snort of laughter from the adult conversation going on above him, but Killian ignores it. He doffs the Stetson, holding out for the boy to inspect. "It is. It's the only thing I had, does it pass your inspection?"

Leo frowns, tapping his chin. "I guess so," he says finally. "It'd be cooler if it had a dinosaur on it."

There's another muffled laugh, and Killian glances up to see Elsa shushing Emma. Grinning, Killian leans towards Leo conspiratorially. "How's about this then?" he stage-whispers. "Why don't you draw a dinosaur, and we'll figure out how to stick it on here after?"

"Yeah!"

The lad gets to work and Killian sits back, putting his hat back on. He looks up again as he takes a pull from his too-sweet tea, and Emma looks away too quickly. Killian grins slowly. Maybe he'd misunderstood, but he could work with that.

-/-

Emma's felt edgy all morning. She'd woken up earlier than usual and the nervous feeling has only multiplied as time goes by. Elsa and Anna had been the first to arrive and Emma had been gently ordered around by Elsa's younger sister almost from the moment she set foot in the door. It's almost a relief to let her take charge of the party. Emma's never been good at playing hostess, but Anna appears to be a natural at making sure everyone's comfortable and on good terms. Emma mentions this to Elsa as Anna mockingly berates Victor for short-changing her. Elsa watches her sister fondly. "She's good with people," she says.

Leo cheers on the other side of the room; Emma glances over to see that he's successfully taped a dinosaur-looking drawing to Killian's hat. Killian glances at her from under the brim and winks. Emma hurriedly looks away again, feeling warm. "But?" Emma prods when Elsa says nothing further.

Elsa's startled. "But? Oh, there's no but, there's just a lot of ands. Anna worked at a halfway house until it closed down, and had to move back home. She's good at helping people, and she's got a head for numbers, so when the clerk job came up I told her to apply. The fights in the locker rooms have gone down drastically since she took over."

Emma lifts her glass to her lips. "Moved back home from where?"

"Boston. That's how I met Kristoff," Anna replies. She looks over her Bruins-clad shoulder, the picture of mischief. "I'm right here, I can hear you two. And it wasn't a halfway house, Elsa, it was a group home for foster kids."

Emma chokes on her tea. Anna grabs a stack of napkins as Emma splutters and tea goes everywhere, feeling like she's coughing up her lungs as she's patted down. Elsa hammers on her back with a fist until Emma holds up her hand to stop. She can feel every eye on the room on her and she just wants the attention off her, so she flaps her hand at the others to carry on. Anna grimaces apologetically as conversation picks back up. "Sorry," she says softly. "I should have dropped that bombshell a little softer. I thought you had that look in your eye, all the kids did, but I thought I might be mistaken. I haven't worked with anyone who aged out of the system before. How long were you in one?"

Emma's hands are cold. She knows 'that look' that Anna's talking about. It's the one that made the Nolans buy Princess, the one that made David grab her by the hand and drag her home for dinner. It's the look that got her mercilessly bullied at eight different schools in the span of five years, the look she'd seen every day reflected back at her in the mirror until she learned to hide it behind a mask of indifference.

The look of someone who was lost and just wanted to find her way home.

She'd found it with the Nolans, eventually, but by then it had been too late to erase the feeling completely.

She considers silence as an answer, but Anna's watching her with open honesty, patience, and a complete lack of judgement. Emma sees where Elsa might summarize it as 'Anna's good with people', because she can't quite put her finger on why she's suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to let her guard down around her. "A month," Emma says under her breath.

Anna reaches over and squeezes Emma's hand briefly. "I'm glad you found home," she whispers, and she turns back to her notebook.

The races start, and if Emma thought watching them over the years with David's family had been eye-opening, it's an entirely different experience now. Ruby, as the granddaughter of a vet, can pick out which horses will be late scratches or breakdowns just during the pre-race coverage. Killian sweeps half the money pot every race. "It's in their eyes. They want to win," he says every time with a shameless grin, as if the explanation did any of them any good.

When Ruby isn't winning, Emma usually splits the pot with him, but Elsa, Anna, and Victor are hopeless. "All of you work around these things daily!" Emma exclaims with a laugh, taking another twenty from Victor after the fourth race of the day. "How are you so awful at it?"

Anna, now wearing her obnoxiously large-brimmed sunhat and building Legos with Leo, sighs. "I work with the jocks, not the animals," she tells them. "And when every jock on that roster is talented, it's hard for me to pick!"

Emma's in the kitchen during a commercial break making Leo his peanut butter sandwich (Mary Margaret _did_ end up buying new bread and peanut butter before leaving) when Killian comes in search of water. "Tap, or filtered's in the fridge," Emma instructs, cutting the sandwich into quarters.

"Are you alright, love?" Killian asks, opting for the tap.

She looks up at him quizzically. "Yeah, fine. Why?"

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, looking at her pointedly. "Your coughing fit earlier?"

Her cheeks feel warm. "Oh," she mumbles, looking away again. "Anna just startled me at the wrong moment."

He reaches over and tweaks a streamer hanging from her sunhat. She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. She and Leo had spent much of last night decorating one of Mary Margaret's flowered hats for the occasion, and the result is a collection of cut-up party streamers, three plastic dinosaurs, and a Hotwheels car precariously balanced on her head. They'd sent a few pictures to Mary Margaret, with the promise that the hat would be restored to normal before she got back. Now, Killian chuckles. "Your hat is quite fetching, darling. I'm a little insulted that the lad thought mine only needed one dinosaur though."

"Don't be jealous," she teases, picking up Leo's dinner. "I'm sure if you asked nicely you'd get another one."

They end up sitting next to each other on the floor, backs against the couch, while Emma encourages Leo to eat properly. She's very aware of Killian's warmth next to her, increasing with every accidental brush of hands or when she elbows him for complaining loudly that he only has one dinosaur on his hat. Leo's only too happy to comply, though, and soon insists on decorating everyone's hats with dinosaurs. Ruby gets him back by drawing her own dinosaur and taping it to his unadorned baseball hat.

Emma makes a mental note to send thank you cards to everyone for being super patient with the fact that they had to hang out with a five year old all day.

They catch glimpses of Mary Margaret and David in the crowd shots, and once or twice the Hood-Mills family up in the VIP seats. Each time, Emma snaps a photo of the TV and sends it to Mary Margaret with instructions to watch for the camera panning. She sends one to Henry and Regina as well, but only Regina replies.

It stings that Henry's still giving her the silent treatment, but Regina's right: Emma's a grown woman and can outlast a sullen teenager. Still, she's dying to know how the trip to the school had gone. Finding out from his mom isn't the same as finding out from Henry himself.

On what seems to be the last crowd shot, they see Mary Margaret and David again, and they wave. Leo is ecstatic; Emma gets the whole thing on video and sends it to them. Killian nudges her. "You're being very diligent about documenting."

She nudges him right back. "Mary Margaret made me promise to keep her updated."

There's movement at the corner of her eye and Emma turns to see Ruby silently gagging. Emma balls up a napkin and whips it at her, missing by a mile. Ruby laughs, leaning back against Victor's legs. Anna holds up her notebook. "Any last minute bets? Five minutes to post!"

"You should take Leroy's job," Victor says. Anna beams. "What the hell, put me down for another twenty on the eight."

"_'What the hell'_? Dude, you have lost so much money today," Ruby exclaims, backhanding his knee.

Victor shrugs, taking another sip of his mint julep. "I budgeted for this, babe. It's fine. I'm feeling good about my picks."

"Don't expect me to pay your rent this month, bro," she tells him.

"You live with me, Red."

Elsa laughs. Killian nudges Emma again and she raises an eyebrow at him. "How about it, Swan, another wager?"

She's suspicious of that glint in his eye, the slow smile creeping up on his lips. "Like what?" she asks slowly.

He reaches between them, lifting her hand up in his, lacing their fingers together and gripping tight. Her heart races as he leans over. "What fun would it be if I told you?" he murmured, their hands close enough to his lips that she could feel them brushing against her fingertips.

"Get a room, you two, it's about to go off," Ruby says, flapping her hands at them.

He doesn't release her hand for the entire race. Leo's jumping up and down and yelling at the TV for the whole race, and Emma's sure that something exciting has happened because everyone else is yelling but she's holding her breath and just so very _acutely_ aware of the small circles being traced onto the side of her hand and the electricity pulsing through her veins. Then she's being jostled and Leo's launched himself into her lap. Killian's hand is gone and Victor wails in agony. Emma looks at the TV, the numbers on the screen, and she's stunned to see her picks in the top four. "Holy sssshhhh-crap," she says finally.

"Don't even whine about this, babe," Ruby's telling Victor, who is huddled on the floor. "You brought this on yourself."

Anna swiftly counts through and shuffles the prize money, handing the neat stack to Emma with a grin. "Congrats, now go hide all of this before Victor realizes he can totally just take it from you."

Emma wads up the cash and sticks it down her shirt, grinning. Ruby sniggers. "Well, that's that. Clean up time," Elsa announces, heading into the dining room.

"I think we ate most of it," Emma calls after her. She starts to get up. Killian's watching the winner's circle coverage intently. He seems to notice her staring and his eyes flick to her. One corner of his mouth lifts in a brief smile and then he's watching the show again.

"Aunt Emma, are Mama and Daddy coming home now?" Leo asks.

She takes off her hat and settles it onto his head. "They'll be here tomorrow, kiddo. But we'll Facetime with them again tonight before bed, okay?"

As quickly as everyone had arrived, it seems like they clear out just as fast. Dishes are taken and tables are cleared, trash and recycling dropped in their respective bins. Leo asks if he can watch a movie and Emma agrees, thinking to tackle the dishes she'd left in the sink.

Killian's in the dining room. He's carefully carving what's left of his banana nut bread out of the pan and into a container. "Oh, God. I thought you'd left, sorry," Emma says, hurrying to take over. "Let me get that."

He slides it out of her reach. "Swan, I've got it," he says gently. "I merely thought I'd leave this with you, seeing as how you-how did you put it?-might actually commit murder over it?"

She breathes a laugh. "I mean… There's a first time for everything," she says, taking the pan from him when it's empty. She ignores his protests as she takes it to the kitchen and drops it in the soaking water with the rest. "You're feeding me, I can wash a damn bread pan," she says, turning on the hot water.

He leans on the counter next to her. "Can I ask you something?"

Emma shrugs, drizzling in a bit more soap. "Shoot."

"Was this going to be a party when you invited me initially? Or did I grossly misunderstand your intentions?"

Emma freezes. Damn. She can count on one finger the number of people who have been able to read her like a book, and he's currently in Kentucky. Maybe she should rethink that number. Killian reaches over and turns off the water, chuckling. "I think that answers my question," he says. "If you were uncomfortable being alone in my presence, Swan, you should have said so. I wouldn't have been offended."

She braces herself on the counter, breathing out slowly. She's not in the business of doling out false hope, and she's starting to think she'd made a mistake in throwing this party.

Hell, she'd been having that thought since he'd come in bearing banana nut bread and a nervous smile.

"No," she says finally. "It wasn't that, it was… well, it _was_ that. But not how you think, it was…" She grinds her teeth together. She hates admitting this aloud. "I was afraid. Nervous."

He moves some of her hair over her shoulder. She realizes that she hasn't flinched away from his touch all day, not like she has before. It makes her more nervous. "Afraid of what?" Killian sounds as nervous as she feels.

She looks over at him, with his Stetson pushed high on his head, both of Leo's drawings still taped to it. He's leaning against her counter and watching her with that soft look in his eye that he only uses with her or his animals, looking for all the world like he belonged there. That scared her. _He_ scared her.

Emma turns herself fully to face him and takes a deep breath. "This," she says, and she grabs his shirt, pulling him to her, their lips crashing together.

-/-

She tastes like mint and bananas, and on any other woman it might be off-putting, but with Emma Swan it's intoxicating.

Killian's hands go to her waist, pulling her flush against him, needing to feel more, taste _more_. In seconds, he's sure he could never tire of anything she has to offer him, could have her thousands upon thousands of times and never find her tasting, feeling, _being_ the same way twice. His hand moves to bury itself in that fine golden hair just as he feels the light scrape of her nails along the back of his neck.

It's the nails that do it.

He pushes her back against the counter, his hands sliding down her body to cup her arse, and her leg lifts to hook around his, pulling them closer together. She opens to him and it takes every ounce of his control not to devour her. She's warmth and sweetness, every touch of her tongue against his setting his very soul aflame. He lifts her onto the counter and she knocks his hat to the floor as her fingers card through and grip his hair at turns. Her legs wrap around his waist, and _God in heaven_, she could kill a man with the delicious way she moaned into his mouth as he pressed himself against her center.

Maybe they've only been at it for minutes or maybe hours have passed and then the lad is calling, "Aunt Emma, the Netflix is broken!" and she pulls away.

He can't catch his breath and she rests her forehead against his, breathing just as hard. Her legs loosen their grip around his waist. He feels too warm, his jeans too tight, and the gap now between them too wide. If not for Leo, he might have had his way with her right here in the damn kitchen.

Maybe she would have let him.

"That was…" he breathes, unable to find the right word. Eye-opening? Astounding? Life-changing? _Magical_?

"Something we both needed to get out of our systems," she finishes, and she releases him.


	10. May 3-19

**Thank you everyone for sticking with me so far and leaving such kind words in your reviews. The last week has been difficult for me and they've really helped.**

**This chapter contains the following triggers: eating disorders, graphic descriptions of unhealthy bodies and unhealthy weight management, child endangerment, and animal death. Please go forward with caution.**

* * *

><p>There's a bit of a lust-fueled delay between hearing her words and understanding the meaning of them, and when it happens, Emma's already slipped off the counter and around him. "Something we <em>both<em>-" Killian stutters, whirling in time to see her pass through the doorway.

His first emotion is anger, quickly replaced by guilt and then frustration, trailing off with a healthy dose of remorse for his initial anger. He drags his hands up and down his face, mussing his hair further than the job she's already done on it, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth in some shoddy meditation attempt some therapist or other over the years recommended. If she thought that sort of kiss was something they needed to get _out_ of their systems, he doesn't know if either of them are ready for the raging desire that's replaced it.

He _wants_ her.

And she's rejected him.

'_Not rejected, little brother. Not yet. The boy called for her, and she has responsibilities._' Killian's not sure when his conscience turned into his brother Liam. He _is_ sure he's had more conversations with this Liam than he did when his brother still walked this earth.

_Fuck her responsibilities,_ Killian thinks, and then immediately regrets it.

Liam is unsympathetic. '_Have you really grown so desperate for a shag? There are plenty of willing women around here.'_

Be that as it may, there's something less appealing about his usual one-and-done when Killian's plans for picking up and leaving town aren't coming to fruition anytime soon. This puts a slight damper on his desire for her. He turns again, bracing himself on the counter and exhaling slowly. _It's not them that I want._ Even to his own mind he sounds like a whiny pissant.

'_Stop acting like a spoiled child denied a toy, it's unbecoming.'_

_Why should she turn me away? _She _started it,_ Killian thinks.

He can see the exasperated headshake as Liam says, '_Some days, you are more the _young_er brother you named yourself. Perhaps it's not your 'dashing good looks' and charm that drew her to kiss you. Perhaps she just felt good after winning the pool._'

Killian grinds his teeth together. _If feeling good was what she was after, she could have at least let me fuck her. At least then we _both _could feel good._

Liam's silent judgement and the ringing in Killian's ears brings him out of his thoughts. Hot shame drips through him as he realizes what he's thought. He glances up; there's a window looking out to the farm across from him, a farm he can hardly make out in the dying light of the day. Instead, his own pale, wide-eyed reflection stares back at him from the glass. _Oh, God. I should… leave. Just go. Before I do something really stupid._

'_Implying you haven't already_.' Killian doesn't know when he's forgotten exactly how his brother's laugh sounded, but it bothers him. He knows it's not correct, but he can't recall what it should be instead. There's no one else left to remember it, and he can't even do it properly.

Ducking out now avoids the awkward _well now what_ conversation. It might leave Emma with the wrong impression, but he's willing to bear that cross. He swallows hard at the thought of what she might think of him - what she _must_ think of him now - but the tight shame that makes it hard to breathe refuses to let up. He deserves that. He can't talk about _now whats_ with the taste and feel of her still on him. _Now what_ for him (at this moment) ends in her bed, or the kitchen floor, or out in the damn hayloft for all he cares - and she deserves _better _than that. As much as he wants her, as much as there's a primal need to _have_, the larger part of him doesn't _want_ it to be that way with her.

And he frightens her.

She said as much, moments before everything turned upside down. She's frightened of him, and here he is in her kitchen, his mind flooded with a thousand scenarios of their bodies joining and limbs tangling - he's a hell beast of the first degree, and the shame flames hottest.

He cares about her as a friend first and foremost, and it pains him to think Emma would be afraid of him.

Killian sighs again. He doesn't like complicated and the logistics in his brain are already conflicting. He can feel the headache brewing as he drags his hand down the side of his face. _Leaving. Yes. Good. Gwan, Jones_, he tells himself. His keys are in his pocket; he can collect the dishes another time. Or buy new ones, whichever works better.

As he quietly leaves through the back door, his heart feels empty. Every step of the walk to his truck is a battle against the urge to run back inside and sweep Emma up into his arms and hold her there, ravishing her until Judgement Day. It's been an age since he felt this way about anyone and it makes him anxious. In his experience there's only one way to really drown out this specific taste of a woman: an unhealthy amount of Jameson's finest Irish.

There is one solace to his dilemma, though. The thought makes him smile wistfully.

Unlike the last time he needed this much whisky, at least Emma's still alive.

-/-

"We're trading beds," Emma announces, stretching out on David and Mary Margaret's king-sized bed. Her full-sized one was nice enough, but there's something to be said about this pillow-top. She grins at Mary Margaret's exasperated look. "Come on, you were holding out on me."

"You didn't have to sleep down here," Mary Margaret admonishes.

Emma barks a laugh. "Yeah, okay. And when your kid had a nightmare and also had to ascend the scary stairs to the attic, I wouldn't have heard about that at all."

Mary Margaret smiles, acquiescing. She tosses a few more things from the suitcase into the laundry hamper. Emma rolls onto her side, facing her. "So how was the trip?"

"It was nice," Mary Margaret says. "We haven't had the chance to just… do whatever we wanted for so long. No jobs, no children, just us? Honestly, it was kind of bizarre. To feel kind of normal we met with Regina and her family for dinner on Friday night."

She says the last part with some hesitation, and Emma resists the urge to pry about Henry. Instead she says, "Sounds like a good time. Uneventful is good."

"Yeah." Mary Margaret sets a few toiletries on the dresser. "How were things here? Besides with Leo - you kept us up to speed with him, and thank you for that."

Emma shrugs. "Normal. Phillip came up with reports every day, none of the boys got kicked or tossed off. Everything's well-managed, I checked every day to make sure it was clean. All quiet on the home front."

"And the party?"

Emma rolls onto her back, her arms falling above her head, resisting the urge to sigh in frustration. She definitely doesn't want to talk about what happened after the party and maybe - if she plays her cards right - she can get away with it. "Uneventful, if you don't count me winning the big pot at the end. Victor lost all his money to me, Ruby, and Killian, so that was fun. Not so fun was listening to him whine about it. Elsa and her sister came - have you met Anna before?"

Mary Margaret nods. "When a jock gets excused, we have to go talk to her. She's sweet."

"She's like, psychic," Emma grumbles.

"Ah, the people thing."

Emma grunts an affirmative. She still doesn't know how Anna had gotten her to open up like that. It had taken a few shots of tequila - and then later a heavy dose of guilt - to let Killian into the _tamer_ parts of her past and even he'd had to wait for longer than an hour into their acquaintance for the privilege. Mary Margaret pats Emma's ankle and smiles sympathetically. She glances at Emma sidelong before asking, "And how was Killian?"

Emma isn't blushing. "What do you mean?"

"I mean was he okay with there being other people? I'm assuming you didn't tell him."

Damn her, knowing Emma so well. Emma feels very warm as she responds. "He seemed okay. He was really good with Leo - everyone was really, I need to buy them all fruit baskets or something - and he made this amazing banana nut bread."

"Your favorite," Mary Margaret says, smiling like she knows a secret.

Emma isn't fooled. "I didn't tell him, he just did it."

"Okay."

The room grows quiet, disturbed only by the distant sounds of Leo and David coming back inside from the barns or of Mary Margaret putting things away and muttering to herself about where certain items went. Emma's pretty sure they might have been sacrificed in the Great Pre-Vacation Purge of 2014, but she won't breathe a word. Finally, Mary Margaret sighs and sits heavily on the bed, bouncing slightly. "So, are you going to tell me why you blushed when I brought up Killian, or do I have to guess?"

Emma props herself up on her elbows. "Has anyone told you you're really nosy?"

"Emma, please," Mary Margaret says, fixing her with a scrutinizing look. "My students can hide a secret better than you and they're ten."

Emma frowns. "Nothing happened." Mary Margaret tilts her head disbelievingly. "Nothing happened!" Emma insists several times, but every time she tries to protest, it seems that Mary Margaret's eyes narrow a little further until they're nothing more than dark slits. Finally, Emma falls back onto the bed, sighing in exasperation. She grabs a pillow and holds it over her face. "I kissed him, alright?" she declares, though it's muffled.

"Is that all?" Mary Margaret asks. Emma whips the pillow at Mary Margaret, who promptly returns fire. "I'm serious," she says, combing through her short hair with her fingers.

"_Yes_, that's all," Emma grinds out. She doesn't want to mention how she can _still _feel the intensity and hunger behind that kiss, just enough of each to tease her into craving more. She'd felt it all the way down to her toes, it had rocked her to the core, made her tingle now just thinking of it. The edges between them had blurred as they melted into each other, she hadn't known where he ended and she began and she _liked_ it. And then he'd gone and lifted her up onto the counter like she was weightless and fuck _yes_ she was going to wrap her legs around him and not let him escape, was she nuts?

She feels warm again as Mary Margaret nods. "Okay."

She pointedly doesn't say anything else, and before Emma can be baited David calls up the stairs, "Sweetheart, Belle's here!"

Mary Margaret frowns curiously before heading out. Emma flops back onto the bed for a moment, debates yelling into the pillow, and then just gets up in disgust. She goes downstairs with a vague idea of tossing something together for dinner - she can't destroy boxed macaroni and cheese, can she? Emma can hear Mary Margaret and Belle discussing something quietly in the living room while she digs through the kitchen. Her eyes land on Killian's dishes sitting on the drying rack, cleaned and waiting for her to take them to him. Irritation surges through her.

Of course he'd just up and left without saying anything yesterday. It shouldn't bother her - she's preferred guys not making a big deal in the past, hasn't she? - but it does, and that irritates her further. She shouldn't expect anything - expecting things is what gets someone hurt - but at least 'Goodbye' would do. And he'd left his things here. She'd offered to wash only the bread pan, but the shrimp platter and salad bowl remained as well, and his damn hat had been left on the floor. It currently sat on her nightstand.

Maybe that's why she'd slept in Mary Margaret and David's room last night, sue her.

If Killian wants his stuff back, he has to get it himself. She's no one's errand girl. She has things to do. Family and the farm, and Henry... Another wave of irritation hits, and she gently beats her head against the cupboard door in frustration. Her forehead meets flesh next, and she jumps, looking up to see David. He'd slipped his hand between her head and the wood to catch her. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Emma grumbles, and she whips open the cupboard to grab a box of mac and cheese.

"Yeah, beating yourself over the head is 'peachy'," David quips.

Emma's rough with the cookware, ignoring her brother while he leans against the fridge with his arms crossed, watching and waiting. She knows what he's doing: he thinks if he stands there long enough, she'll open up to him. Worse, he's usually right. She putters around, ignoring his watchful gaze. She decides to get fancy and steam some broccoli to put on top of the macaroni and cheese - let Mary Margaret believe this is how it's been all weekend - while also drawing out the time she's going to let David wait for her.

The record is two hours. She can't see herself holding out that long today.

She's straining the noodles when she finally caves. "How was Henry?" Emma asks quietly. She can feel the desperation for answers creeping into her voice and she hates herself a little bit for it. She wouldn't feel this way if she hadn't pushed - no, it needed saying. She can be disappointed it wasn't well-received, but he had needed someone to say it.

She hears David shift behind her. "Quiet. Kinda down."

"Did they go to the school?"

"Regina mentioned it, yeah. He didn't perk up about it though, which I thought was weird. Are you ready to tell me why you two aren't speaking?" he asks.

In the two weeks since their fight, only Regina - and to an extent Robin - knew the details of why Emma and Henry weren't speaking. David and Mary Margaret knew something had happened, but Emma had pleaded the fifth when pressed for details. Now, she's not so sure it had been the best idea. Creating a safe space for Henry was the goal, had always been the goal, and maybe by excluding people she had accidentally created an instigative space. She's never had to deal with this sort of thing before. Navigating the waters of keeping personal issues private and creating a healing, nurturing environment was trickier than she thought. "Dave, if I ask you something, you have to promise to keep quiet about it," Emma says.

He looks concerned, but nods. Emma takes a deep breath. "What's the worst you've ever seen a jock get?"

David tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

She fixes him with an unamused glare. "You know what I mean."

David clenches his jaw for a moment. This isn't easy to discuss, Emma knows. She wouldn't talk about it if she had to, and maybe that's the whole problem. "Well, that kid who roasted to death in his car in Texas a few years-"

"_No_," Emma implores. "You _personally_, not the stories we all know."

He looks down. For a full minute, she thinks he isn't going to say anything. Then, he looks up at her again with haunted eyes. "New guy, just after Mom died. Had crazy potential, intense focus, worked like magic with his mounts. One of the best jocks I've worked with. But he was practically skeletal. Never saw him eat, when he wasn't riding he was running the oval again and again. I don't have a clue how he managed to run so many miles in one day, not with how he looked.

"He had a little girl. She was his whole world outside of racing. She'd come with him some days during training. She was the sweetest thing," David says.

Emma realizes there's tears in his eyes. Her stomach drops out. "What happened?" she breathes.

He clears his throat. "On their way in one day, he passed out while driving. His body just gave out. Car went into the ditch about half a mile up the road. I'll never forget Grace's face when she came limping up the driveway, forehead cut up and crying because she thought her papa was dead. Hospitalized him right away. Doctors said a man his size and that weight were only ever seen in war zones, or refugee camps. He got better eventually, but he lost Grace. We tried to keep her with us, we didn't want her to go into the system, but the judge ruled it a conflict of interest since Jefferson worked for me. She has a family nearby now. He has visitation a few times a month."

Underneath her bubbling rage at the foster care system and its many ineptitudes, Emma feels shock. Her eyes widen. "Jeff… _My_ Jefferson?"

David nods. "He can't be away from a track, but he can't ride like he used to anymore. You ever notice he doesn't hang out with the others, he's kinda withdrawn?" She nods. She's noticed, but she's also noticed how Victor always tries to bring him around anyway. He'd mentioned trying to bring Jefferson on Saturday. Without fail, every invitation is turned down, but it's extended every time regardless. "He's being treated for depression now, too, but it's slow going. Only thing that keeps him going some days is his daughter."

She doesn't know how she feels. Part of her wishes someone had told her sooner, but she knows how the world works. She wonders if she's ever said anything that might have been insensitive towards Jefferson, but she stops herself from falling down that rabbit hole of potential guilt.

Emma walks over and hugs David tight. His arms go around her easily and she rests her head against his chest. "Help me," she pleads. "Help me make sure that won't be Henry."

"Whatever I can," he promises, and kisses the top of her head.

"Emma, I - oh," Mary Margaret begins, stopping abruptly in the door. Belle's right behind her. "Is everything alright?"

Emma steps away, nodding. Mary Margaret glances between her and David, concern etched on her face. Emma notices her brother and sister-in-law are having one of their silent conversations, so she goes to finish making dinner. Belle cautiously comes to stand near her while she works. "Are you alright, Emma?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," Emma says with a sigh. Belle smiles sympathetically and Emma stirs the cheese mix into the milk. "I'm surprised you're speaking to me."

She glances sidelong at Belle, who inclines her head in acknowledgement. "Well, I can't say my husband didn't deserve it. Believe me, we had a few words about it. But he's promised me that he'll be on his best behavior, and I believe him."

Emma wouldn't trust one of Gold's promises as far as she could throw him, but then, she's not married to him. There has to be a certain level of trust there. "I think as long as we stay out of each other's way, it'll be better for everyone."

Belle nods while Emma mixes in the noodles. "You're probably right. But I did mean what I asked, if you're alright. Either from that night or…" Belle looks over at David and Mary Margaret, who are getting plates and silverware out.

Emma holds out her hand for Belle to see. Her bruises are almost gone now. "Almost healed. And really, punching him more than helped make me feel better about any lies he was spewing. As for that," she says, nodding at David, "Family stuff."

"I see," Belle says.

Emma grabs the big serving bowl and dumps the finished macaroni into it and then the broccoli on top. "You wanna stay for dinner?" she asks.

Belle smiles and accepts.

Dinner passes in an ordinary fashion - for them, anyway, which meant only fifteen minutes of post-dinner cleanup from Leo. After, Belle leaves with a promise to see Mary Margaret tomorrow. "We've been behind in schooling. She was in Argentina, and then between her schedule and mine, we've got work cut out for us getting these guys back on track," Mary Margaret explains later, as she and Emma go down to the stables to turn the horses down for the night.

When Emma goes up to bed, she glares at Killian's hat on the nightstand. Leo's drawings are still taped to it and her heart twinges at the memory of him sitting on the floor, pointing out colors or teasing her nephew. Her fingers itch to pick up the phone and ask if he wants his things back or not - or even what he's doing. She's grown used to their daily text exchange and maybe it bugs her more than she cares to admit that she's missed talking to him a little today.

Instead, she tosses her phone on the floor, too far to reach from the bed, and climbs into bed. She deliberately turns away from the stupid hat after turning out the light. She looks out the window instead, only to be met with disappointment that there are no stars to keep her company in her gloom. The reason why is revealed as she starts to drift to sleep and rain begins to splatter against the window panes.

* * *

><p>The next two weeks are despondent and even the weather matches Emma's mood. As unseasonably warm as April had been, the amount of rain (and the accompanying cold front) that almost continuously pours over Storybrooke is just as abnormal through May. It settles a chill in everyone's bones that refuses to leave, and it sends everyone with sense running for their warm, dry houses. Emma doesn't have much sense these days, though, and the rain only makes her evening walks down to work at the barns miserable. At this point, Emma's fairly certain that even if she had a magic wand she wouldn't be able to scrape all of the mud from her boots and she can't quite remember the last time she's been properly dry.<p>

The few days of feeble sunshine don't improve her mood. Going to work and watching Killian either shield his eyes or wear aviators only feeds the guilt that she still has his things. It's not like they haven't spoken, either, but they…

It's weird. It's very weird and Emma doesn't like it and she knows it's her fault for making it weird but she doesn't know how to unmake that weirdness.

He's civil to her when they meet, pleasant even, but it's not the same as it was B.K. - Before Kiss. The flirtatious edge to his grin is gone, he stays well out of her personal space, and it's _weird_, okay? He doesn't even flirt in his texts anymore - and that's when he texts her back at all. It makes her more anxious and irritated to think maybe he got what he wanted from her, or maybe she was just that bad of a kisser that he wanted nothing more to do with her, or - _God, stop it!_ Emma tells herself one morning, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes until a rainbow of supernovae explodes in her sight.

She's tired of running in circles with herself and she's more tired of being too chicken to confront him about all of this.

"Are you alright?" Elsa asks quietly after one race. "You've been… pensieve all afternoon."

Emma nods, punching up her queue. "I'll get over it."

"I didn't ask that."

Emma glances over, smiling tight-lipped. "It's fine, really. Thanks, Elsa."

Elsa gives her a look that says she doesn't quite believe her but leaves it at that. Emma can only hope she doesn't think to sic Anna on her, because Emma's not quite prepared for that kind of illegal warfare yet. She also really needs to get Killian Jones out of her brain, because there's a lot of other stuff she needs to worry about.

It's raining again - this has to be some kind of record - and the track is better labeled as 'soup' than 'sloppy'. They should have called the day off, but Spencer's a hardheaded asshole. No one wants to lose a few extra million dollars with the wake of post-Derby racing enthusiasm still sweeping the gambling world. So they seal the dirt after every race and hope for the best. A few races have taken several minutes to decide - no one can tell who wears what colors or silks under the mud splatters, even the ones out in front. There have been a few falls - nothing drastic, everyone walked off the field themselves - but Emma's gut twists itself into making her nauseous at every start anyway.

Ruby cuts in with her paddock camera shot and, despite herself, Emma smiles when she sees Killian huddling in the stall. The hood of his rain jacket is a flimsy cover for the downpour outside. She really should just go drop everything off tonight. Get over herself and do it.

She bites the inside of her lip as she watches him pat down Pride of War, his mouth going the whole time. He's probably enacting some Gaelic winning spell - yes, she's finally looked up what the hell language he's speaking when he flies off into not-English - or whatever other Irish superstition he likes to partake in. Or maybe Pride still just likes to be talked to. (Emma used to talk to him a lot when he was just a foal, shiny and new, and Neal used to tease her that she acted like Pride could actually understand her. She knew better.)

It's raining hard enough that the cameras can barely see through all the water to the starting gate. Emma's steadfast though. "Keep with them as best you can," she says, again and again.

Three furlongs from the finish line, they can see the outline of one horse fall. Emma sucks in a breath so fast it makes her chest hurt - and then another crashes into the first, and then a third. Almost half the field gets stuck in the wreckage, with five either ahead or able to weave around in time to finish. Emma doesn't even realize she's holding her breath until her lungs start to protest. An inquiry goes up immediately after someone crosses the finish line and Emma's eyes go to the rewind boards to see what had happened.

It's worse to watch it more clearly, on the closer camera feeds, but it makes her stomach roll to see the falls in slow motion. The horses and jocks are so caked in rain and mud that she can't even tell who or what caused the accident or was involved. Glancing at the live feed shows more ambulances and horse trailers on the field at one time than she could ever remember seeing before, and Emma has to focus on Arthur's blinking lights to settle down.

It takes ten minutes to clear the oval, but at that point Spencer has already stuck his head in and said the remainder of the day is cancelled. Ruby and Elsa trade wide-eyed looks, and Emma feels sick. There's no announcement as to what anyone's condition is and Emma knows that means it's bad. When she's finished cleaning up, Emma braves the weather to go down to the barn - David will know what happened.

-/-

God, he needs a drink.

Killian's on the couch again, still proper soaked through and not giving a damn about the condition of his furniture, both Si and Am staying a long ways away from him. He needs a drink and there's none to be found in the house, most of it gone two weeks ago in his little binge, the rest sacrificed at intermittent points in the coming weeks for any resurgences in feelings.

The rain's slowing finally.

If he can't drink, he needs a distraction.

His limbs feel heavy as he sits up and slowly looks around for such a thing to distract him from his empty heart. There's a binder on the table - full of charts and notes - one he'd been meaning to return to the Nolans for a few weeks. Killian had been avoiding the chore, though, avoiding another encounter with Emma if he could help it.

It's not that he's wanted to stay away. He's seen the curious and slightly hurt looks on her face with each of their recent interactions and it pains him to be the cause of them. But he decided after his little bingeing experiment that it would be best to keep his distance. He values her friendship and succumbing to his baser desires might be enough to sever that.

However, perhaps as with Humbert's mail, doing a thing he dreads when he can't feel anything at all might be the best plan of action.

The drive is treacherous, with flooding on every other country lane, and it takes at least an hour to get to Shepherd's Point when a normal day would take about twenty minutes. He doesn't feel nervous as he steps up the porch and knocks, though he does wonder at the time and if he's interrupting dinner.

Mary Margaret opens the door with some surprise. "Killian! How nice to see you, what brings you here?"

Killian attempts to smile. "Bringing this back for your husband, ma'am," he explains, holding up the binder.

She lifts an eyebrow. It makes her look uncharacteristically haughty. "It's Mary Margaret, Killian, not Mrs. Nolan or ma'am," she informs him, and he bows his head at the mild reprimand. He glances up to see her expression soften. "David's down at the barn. And Killian -," she says as he turns to go. He looks back. The look she wears now is pure sympathy. "I'm sorry."

The hollowness inside him fills, this time with regret. "Me too, ma - Mary Margaret."

The path to the barns is no less soaked than anything else in this waterlogged world in which they all now live. He tries - and fails - to kick off any excess mud when he gets to the shedrow and silently apologizes to whoever has to clean up the otherwise sparkling aisle. Killian thinks back to the other times he's been here and remembers that the office is at the other end of the aisle.

As he nears the end of the row, a sound makes him pause. Maybe if he weren't so attuned to the normal sounds of a stable he'd miss the quiet sniffling and murmuring coming from the foaling stalls, but Killian has been in more stables than actual houses at this point in his life. He can pick out a human where they don't belong faster than one could say 'Guinness'. He looks around the stall door.

Emma's resting her head against a mare's neck, softly crooning to her and stroking her nose. Emma's face looks blotchy, like she's been crying. Something inside of him twists painfully. "Swan," Killian says hoarsely.

She doesn't even open her eyes. "Jones." She sounds _broken_ and the twisting in his gut worsens.

"You've heard, then."

She nods, her hand not stopping its ministrations - whether it's to sooth herself or the mare, Killian isn't sure. "Pride was a good horse," she says quietly. "He was Neal's first-bred, we were so excited... I was there the day after he was born. He was all knees and jumpy like a rabbit. Neal said if he wasn't a racer, he'd be a good show horse. He might have been right, but Neal didn't waste time with anything but racers."

Killian nods. He'd seen that himself in training, and Pride had been eight then. Emma's hand falls away from the mare's face. She sniffs, rubbing her nose and opening her eyes finally as she turns towards him. They're red-rimmed and bloodshot. "Gold didn't even want to try to rehab him? Not even with what his wife does?" she asks.

Killian shook his head. It's a dreadful thing to cut a beast down in its prime, but the hardened part of him understands why some owners choose to euthanize over a lengthy, costly recovery. "No. Said it's what his son would have done," he murmurs.

Emma sniffs again, a laugh sounding more like a sob escaping her. "A year ago, I would have disagreed, but now I don't even know."

She hugs herself tight and the sight of her - lonely and fragile and desperately craving _something_ - is what makes him open the stall door and walk in to embrace her. Emma relaxes into him almost immediately, her head fitting against his shoulder and just under his chin like she was made to be there. It takes another minute for her arms to relax and encircle him as well. "I've seen it a hundred times and I'll surely see it a hundred more, but it'll never hurt any less," Killian says into her hair.

He absently runs his fingers through her hair, damp and tangled as it is. "You'd have to be pretty fucked up to not be hurt by it," Emma replies.

"Aye."

She shifts a little, tucking her head further under his chin. He senses she wants to say something more, but is holding back. He remembers the _now what _conversation he's been avoiding for weeks, the attempts to keep her at arms length to prevent them from crossing a line he isn't sure they can come back from, and underneath the numbness and pain he feels worried. If he couldn't have that conversation then, he definitely can't have it right now.

But Emma stays quiet and he doesn't breathe a word about the few new spots of dampness she adds to his shirt.

They'll discuss _now what _later.


	11. May 19-June 4

**Chapter warnings: underage smoking, rough physical handling of a minor by an adult, witnessing murder/general death talk, lead in to sex but not actually depicted.**

* * *

><p>For the first time in weeks, Emma feels warm.<p>

It takes her a while to notice - long after she's finally, _finally_ stopped crying - while Killian is still stroking her hair and holding her and just _being_ there. But she realizes her hands, loosely clutching his shirt, are no longer numb. Her legs, pressed against his in her desperate need for physical affection, don't feel like they're made of cold lead. And somewhere under the dulled pain in her chest she feels _safe_.

This realization makes her take a breath and step out of his hold.

He's watching her with kindness, reaching up and thumbing away the tear tracks still on her face. "You'll be alright, Swan," he tells her softly.

She shakes her head. "No. Well, eventually. It's just hard when… when things leave." The walls of the stall seem to be closing in on her and she takes another deep breath to clear her head. She's cried enough for the dead today.

His fingers still rest against her cheek and they help ground her in the present. He's warm and the pads of his fingers are a little rough from calluses, but it's comforting and she finds herself leaning into his touch. His eyes search hers for a moment, then something shifts in his expression. He hesitates for a moment and then says softly, "After my brother passed - after Milah passed - all I could do was relive that final terrible moment."

Emma jerks her head up, her breath catching in her throat. He'd had a brother? And who was Milah? Killian's hand falls away to his side. "Sometimes I still do, but most days I remember that he and Milah would want me to live in the here and now."

She finds her voice. "You - you saw your brother die?"

He nods, not meeting her eyes. "In Belfast, about ten years gone. I'd invited him to come up, I had a race at Down Royal. My… My Milah, she was there too. We went into the city for pub banter. We weren't paying attention to what neighborhood we were walking into." He rocks back onto his heels, and the silver cross around his neck glints from the overhead lights. "We got mugged, but it went wrong. Liam got stabbed, and Milah she… she would get so _pissed off_ at the slightest things, but this had her in a proper rage." His laugh sounds broken. "She went off on them and she… they knifed her good. She went faster but Liam - Liam held on, I thought he'd make it. We even got to a hospital but by then it was too late." It's her turn to reach out and cup his cheek, her thumb brushing across a thin scar that's slashed across his cheekbone, near his nose. He nods to her unasked question. "I didn't walk away whole from that night."

"You didn't - you didn't need to -"

He reaches up and covers her hand with his, lightly gripping her hand. "I'm aware of what I did and did not need to do, Swan. I just wanted you to know that I know how hard it is when something you love leaves unexpectedly."

Emma remembers the night on the swingset, when he said people who are left behind have a bond. His parents, his brother, and his lover - all dead and gone. She'd had no family until she was fifteen, but she knew familial loss: her foster parents were gone - James when she was seventeen and Ruth had died just after Emma had left for New York. Emma doesn't know what she'd do if she lost David and Mary Margaret and Leo as well.

It's quiet, only the horses making any noise in the barn, and she's not sure how long they stand there. He squeezes her fingers finally and lets go. "Not to change the subject completely, but did you happen to know if your brother is around?"

Emma grimaces. "I don't, sorry. Is it important?"

Killian shakes his head and holds up a binder. "Not particularly, just needed to get out of the house. He lent this to me some time ago and I thought to return it."

_Speaking of returning things…_ Emma smiles, and she's suddenly glad for an excuse to shed her grief for a while. "I actually still have your stuff. Freeloader, making me host _and_ wash up after you."

His face relaxes when he realizes she's teasing. "If I recall correctly, you were doing almost none of the hosting, and poor Miss Adgarssen was in charge of it all." Emma scoffs, pushing him slightly, and he chuckles. "What have I said about shoving me, Swan?"

"Make me," she retorts.

His eyes darken and the atmosphere shifts. Emma swallows hard against the heat that zips through her belly. "Look," she says hastily, "why not just go drop that in his office, and come with me back up to the house?" He tilts his head slightly, questioning her silently, and she's horrified to realize she's blushing. "So I can give you your shit back!" Emma squeaks, and she barely suppresses the urge to slap her hand over her mouth in mortification over how stupidly high-pitched her voice sounds.

Killian, to his credit, holds back any further commentary - or worse, laughter - in favor of ducking out of the stall. Emma takes a moment to compose herself, says her goodbyes to Princess by giving her the last carrot out of her pocket, and she meets Killian in the aisle. "Not there," he tells her, referring to David. "Who's the fine lady here? We weren't properly introduced."

He gestures to Princess. Emma smiles wryly. "She's mine."

"And her name?"

Emma starts walking. Killian follows at an easy pace, his hands tucked into his pockets. She decides to just get it over with. "Remember that when you buy a horse, you're stuck with their registered name."

"And most owners give out nicknames, but go on."

She elbows him. He takes his hand out of his pocket, snakes it around her arm, and traps her against his side as he slips his hand back into the pocket. Emma inhales sharply. _Don't be so stupid_, she thinks. _It's just his arm. It's nothing._ They fall into synchronized steps. "_Anyway_," she says, pretending she's a normal person with a regular pulse, "knowing that means you're not allowed to laugh. Because she's mine and I will kick your ass if you do."

He grins down at her. "Aye, Swan, and they say the Irish will talk a person to death. Get on with it before I'm old and gray."

"Her name's Enchanted Princess."

He makes a sort of choking noise and Emma resists the urge to punch him in the gut - barely. "I said no laughing! We call her Princess."

He clears his throat several times - one or two of them sounds suspiciously like laughter. She tries to elbow him again, but he's got her pinned against him pretty good. "A lovely name, to be sure," Killian finally wheezes.

"Shut up, Jones."

The rain has stopped at some point since she came down to brood and mourn in the barn, but the mud still squelches under their boots on the long path back to the house. They ditch their footwear in the mud room to save themselves from Mary Margaret's wrath. He follows her into the kitchen, where Emma retrieves the bowl, tray, and pan from where she'd hidden them on top of the fridge. "One more thing, hang on," she says, and she hurries up the stairs.

His hat is still on the night stand in her room, still taunting her, but retrieving it now is like lifting a weight from her chest. She fingers the brim for a moment, then heads back downstairs. She holds it up triumphantly when she re-enters the kitchen. The corner of Killian's mouth twitches when she places it on his head. "You kept the drawings on," he notes, the one on the left hanging slightly over his face.

She wants to move it to see him better. Instead, Emma hooks her thumbs through her belt loops to keep her hands in place. She doesn't know why she's feeling so handsy today. "Leo would have been heartbroken if I didn't."

"Well then, tell the lad I'll treasure them."

Emma's smile falters. He sounds so final and she doesn't like it, she doesn't like the way the words make her stomach turn to lead. She's so _done_ with final today. _You can tell him yourself_, she wants to say, but the words get stuck in her throat. As he turns to go, she blurts out, "About… Derby Day." She can see his shoulders tense. He's avoiding it and it makes her feel anxious and a little bit queasy because it's _weird _and she _hates_ it. "If that… if I - I mean, if you didn't," she stutters, and he isn't moving, waiting for her to spit it out. She sighs heavily. "I'm sorry, okay? I made things weird between us and I'm sorry."

Killian turns to her, looking her over with a curious expression. Emma resists the urge to take a step back under his mild scrutiny. "Don't be sorry, Emma," he tells her, and hope - confusion? relief? - flares in her chest. His smile is lopsided and it makes her warm all over again. "I'm not."

"Then why -" Emma starts, but he shakes his head, scratching behind his ear. _He's nervous_, she realizes. Maybe she understands _why_. "Then… we're okay? You and me, we're good?"

"We're good, Emma," Killian tells her.

He's looking down at her; his eyes keep flicking down to her lips and she wonders for a fleeting moment if he's going to kiss her. They're closer now. She breathes in his scent - rain and horses and something that makes her think of the ocean. His tongue is tracing the inside of his lip, but then his smile falters and he's taking a step away. Killian's eyes don't meet hers. "I need to go," he says softly. "We have - there's things we need to do now that..."

Right. Pride is gone. Emma feels the weight of grief pulling at her again. The brief reprieve had been nice, but it's time to return to reality. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you, then."

"See you around, Swan."

She watches him leave from the window, mud splashing up over the tires of his truck. She's not sure why she has this feeling that she should be going after him, or why she feels a twinge of regret that he didn't kiss her after all.

-/-

They see each other more infrequently than Killian would prefer over the next few weeks. It's nothing personal, life works in that way sometimes. Emma has a radiant smile for him when he does see her, and every time he wonders why he's resisting her so much. And then Killian will text her something witty and get a wittier response and then he remembers why: he _likes_ Emma Swan, he doesn't want to subject her to his usual patterns. One-and-done, don't let anyone get too close.

As May fades into June, Killian realizes that he has another problem on his hands: Henry.

The lad's work ethic is as solid as ever. Perhaps _too_ strong, however, as Killian has more than once in the last few weeks found Henry asleep in the tack room or up in the hayloft. Killian remembers all too well the desire to fall asleep where he stood when he was a teenager but this is getting out of hand. And now, when he has chores to give Henry, he can't find the lad anywhere.

Killian climbs up to the hayloft briefly, then searches the tack room. He checks every stall and is on his way to his office when he smells smoke. His heart seizes up until he identifies the scent as burning _tobacco_ and not burning hay or wood.

One of the scragglier mousers glowers at him from atop a hay bale as he storms outside, following his nose towards the source of the scent. He's fairly certain that in seven months he's never caught any of his staff smoking on property - they all know the dangers even an ember can pose to a stable. The rules are clear: smoke on your own time. Even Killian's occasional dalliance is kept to the porch.

Killian rounds the corner and snaps at the sight he sees: he grabs Henry roughly by the back of his shirt, hauling the lad away from the shedrow and ignoring Henry's coughs and protests. "You keep that damn thing between your fingers or you'll have triple the hell to pay," Killian snarls as he practically drags Henry up to the house.

"I wasn't gonna smoke the whole thing!"

Killian doesn't even dignify the ridiculous statement with a response. He marches Henry onto the porch, letting him go with a push. Henry drops the cigarette as he stumbles over his own feet. Killian snatches it up and crushes it into the ashtray he keeps on the table. "What the _hell _do you think you're doing, boy?" Killian demands, rounding on Henry. There's a voice that sounds like Liam telling Killian he sounds an awful lot like some of his old trainers, but the larger part of him says Henry needs this more than Killian needs to be kind.

The lad stares up at him sullenly. "You can't yell at me. You're not my dad. You're not even my _step_-dad. You're just the help."

Killian's eyebrows go up. "The _help_," he repeats slowly. "Is that how your sodding rich boy head sees things now?" He watches Henry closely, looking for any kind of response but teenage attitude. "You must be dafter than I thought, boy. Well, let me educate you on something." Killian crouches down to meet him at eye level. "Your mother may employ me, but _you_ do not. _You _are _my_ employee, and _my_ word is law around here. My rules exist for damn good reasons and now I see I've been far too lenient on letting you break them."

"I'm not your employee. You don't pay me."

"I pay you as every master has paid his apprentice since the dawn of time: with experience," Killian snaps. "You lurk about here like you own the place, and you _don't_. You're here to learn, not feck around like an eejit. I catch you smoking or sleeping in the stables again and you're out on your ear, and _you_ get to explain to Regina why her son is banned from her stables." He's breathing heavily out of his nose.

Henry looks away. "Fine," he mutters.

Killian softens a bit. It wasn't all that long ago that he'd been Henry's age and caught with his first smoke. "Why the devil were you smoking anyway?"

Henry's stubbornly silent for a bit, but Killian has all the time in the world. Finally, the lad mumbles, "I stole it out of Will's jacket. I read somewhere that smoking makes you lose your appetite."

Killian breathes out slowly. He recalls their conversation after the Derby, when Henry had come back full of plans and ideas about the academy. "And you still want to go to Kentucky."

"Yeah."

Killian mumbles some curses under his breath. "Boy, you keep this up and you'll have more to worry about than size," he says aloud. "Trust me on that. You need to be in _shape_ to handle our beasts, Henry, not just small. Go run the oval a few times if you feel the need."

Killian claps Henry on the shoulder roughly, not unlike how Liam used to do in lieu of physical affection. The lad shrugs him off, but Killian can tell that the scowl on his face is more for show than anything else. Killian watches as Henry considers the track for a long while, the lad's expression changing little by little from bitter contemplation to determination. Finally, Henry trudges down the stairs towards the oval. Killian feels no small amount of apprehension as he goes, wondering if he's made the situation better or worse. His fingers twitch with the urge to do _something_ else, so he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Neither Regina nor Robin answer his calls, which is odd because it's a Sunday. He knows Robin isn't leaving for his research trip for a few weeks, and Regina… well, she _is_ the type to work on a Sunday if she needed to, but Killian doubts that's the case. Still, if they're otherwise occupied, he doesn't want to bother them. Killian hesitates for a moment, his finger hovering over the button of his next contact. He knows she and the lad aren't on the best of terms, but… He shakes his head and then hits the button for Emma.

She answers promptly, with some confusion - understandable, as they've never actually called one another. "Hey, Killian. What's going on?"

"It's Henry," Killian says, and then he winces at the wording. "Not… It's been a long day. I think someone just needs to take him home, and his parents aren't around."

Emma's quiet. He imagines she's probably at home, sitting on the couch in the living room. Perhaps Leo is playing with his toys on the floor, or she's alone and tucked up with a book. "Does he know I'm coming?"

"No."

She sighs, and in his mind he sees her dragging her fingers through her hair. "Okay. Is he alright?"

"I don't know how to answer that."

He envisions the way she closes her eyes when she's exasperated. Killian doesn't know exactly why things are so strained between Emma and Henry, only that it has something to do with Henry leaving for schooling and neither one will divulge more than that. "Okay," Emma says finally. "I'll be there in half an hour. Don't tell him I'm coming."

She's there in twenty minutes.

He's in his office working on charts when she knocks. "Hey," Emma says, leaning against the doorframe. He lifts his eyes to her and his eyebrows go up. She's oddly alluring in a faded t-shirt and those ratty jeans from several weeks ago. Her hair is piled up on her head in a topknot, long strands of blonde hair escaping to frame her face. "Where is he?"

Killian leans back in his chair, throwing his pencil down. He braces his hands on his head, the picture of nonchalance to mask his interest in her. "On the oval, running laps."

Her brow furrows. His fingers itch to reach out and smooth the wrinkle away, and he shoos the thought away. "With his own feet?" Emma asks.

"Aye."

"Why?"

His jaw clenches. It's a delicate position he's in and he's not sure how to move forward. "Best ask him that, love. It's not my story to tell."

Her frown deepens as she crosses her arms over her chest, but she doesn't push it. He hates to cause her distress, but it's the truth. She gives the tiniest shake of her head, then says, "Thank you for calling me."

"Of course, Swan. You worry about him," Killian states.

She nods. He wants her to come over to his desk, perch on the corner of it, and talk to him about why the crease between her brows won't go away. That's new, too. It's been a long time since he's cared about anyone's problem but his own - something he's noticing more often the longer he stays here. But Emma stays where she is, angled against the doorframe, watching the floor carefully. "He's never been like this before… Then again," she amends, inclining her head, "he's never been fifteen before and I've never had to deal with a fifteen year-old. God knows _I_ wasn't easy to deal with when I was his age…"

Killian chuckles. She's hardly easy to deal with _now_ when she puts her mind to it. "Bit of a spitfire, were you?"

Emma smiles wryly. "If you want to be nice about it." She perks up and twists, looking down the aisle, and lifts her hand in a casual wave. "Henry's coming," she says to Killian. "I'd better head him off before he tries running away from me, but I think at this point I could catch him."

He smiles, but it's weak. He doesn't want her to go, even though this is entirely the reason he called her here in the first place. He's missed talking with her more than he's realized. She returns his smile - was that a wink? - and starts to leave. Before he can stop himself, Killian blurts out, "Wednesday."

Emma pauses just outside the door and glances at him over her shoulder. "It's a day that ends in 'y'. What about it?"

He snorts. "I just wondered… No, I wanted to _ask_ you if you'd come riding with me. If you wanted to."

Emma arches an eyebrow. Killian doesn't blame her - even _he_ thinks he's talking too much. "Riding," she repeats slowly.

It's stupid to feel nervous about this, but she's looking at him like he's grown a second head. It's not a feeling he's used to. "Yes, it's a thing you mentioned you do."

"Sometimes."

"Can Wednesday be one of your sometimes?"

Emma glances forwards. Killian can hear Henry's footsteps now and his own heart is pounding in his chest waiting for _some_ kind of answer and this is _ridiculous_, he's like a fecking _schoolboy_. She looks back once, briefly, and answers. "Maybe."

And damn if she doesn't show up.

It's early in the afternoon, and Killian's with Will and one of Gold's yearlings in a paddock when he hears Emma hail them. She's walking down the yard, waving. Will nudges him with a wicked grin, and Killian cuffs him up the back of the head in response. "Hi Will," Emma says as she reaches the fence. She leans on it, and Killian drinks in the sight of her: dark fitted jeans and old riding boots. Though it's June now, she's wearing a light jacket against the threat of rain - again - overhead.

"Hullo Emma," Will says with a grin.

Killian makes a face as Will lets the lead line slack and Scamp goes to inspect Emma's outstretched hand. "What am I, chopped liver?" Killian asks.

"Oh, you're here too," Emma teases, scratching between Scamp's ears.

"See if I invite you over again."

"He's friendly," she comments as Scamp lips her jacket sleeve.

"He's got some high-brow fancy name, being Gold's an' all, but we call 'im Scamp," Will explains. "He's a right heartbreaker, this one."

Emma laughs as Scamp headbutts her. "I can see that."

Killian nods at the lead line in Will's hand. "You've got things covered here, mate, I have business to attend to."

He hops the fence as Will remarks, "Oh _that's_ what they're calling it these days."

Killian resists the urge to flip the bird or go back and knock Will about again, but just barely. He'll have to come up with some sort of punishment for the insubordination. Instead of retaliation, he leads Emma to the shedrow. "So you really meant 'riding'," she says as they grab all manner of tack.

"Course I did, love. Don't let Will's filthy remarks get to you," Killian tells her with a grunt as he hefts a saddle.

She raises an eyebrow at that, silently calling him out on that, and he grins in response.

They take Regina's horses out - they've been needing proper exercise for a few days now, all cooped up in the rain as they've been. Emma swears she can handle Blackheart and Killian believes her. He takes Bluff, who is feeling more ornery than usual and makes saddling up difficult. As a result Emma is already mounted and taking Blackheart in circles by the time Killian leads Bluff out.

She does know how to ride, and he's not going to lie and say the sight of her - hair secured in a low ponytail under her helmet, posting like she's done it her whole life - doesn't stir something in him. She grins and brings Blackheart to a halt while Killian leads Bluff to the mounting block. "Slowpoke," she chirps.

"Tell that to this one," Killian grunts, swinging himself up and into the saddle.

Emma brings Blackheart close enough to gossip and reaches over to pat Bluff on the neck. "He's just grumpy."

Killian snorts. 'Grumpy' just about sums it up. He wheels Bluff around and sets off, calling over his shoulder, "Do you know, I've all this land and haven't seen more than a third of it?"

Emma catches up fast. "Well, good thing you invited a tour guide," she teases, and she kicks Blackheart into a canter. Killian lets out a startled laugh and urges Bluff to follow.

He doesn't remember feeling this light in ages as they cross the fields and trade lighter stories from their pasts. He learns she hadn't even seen a horse in person until she'd gone to live with the Nolans, and she smiles in a shyly proud way when he tells her it doesn't show in the least. He tells her about some of his misspent youth - sleeping in haylofts to keep an apprenticeship, being hauled off by Liam when he'd missed one too many dinners at home, too many nights awake with colicky or laboring mares.

She's also not kidding when she claims to be a tour guide as they leave the rolling fields for the few acres of forest that also belong to the farm. She points out bramble thatches deer use for homes, trees she's spotted baby bears in before, and a broad creek (likely shallower when it hasn't rained for weeks on end) the horses can use for drinking water. Near the swollen creek, there's a fire circle - covered in leaves and some stones knocked away from disuse - and rotted out logs bordering it that she stares at for a long moment while they water the horses and rest their backs. "Seems a shame to let a pretty spot go to waste," he comments, and kneels to fix the stones.

Emma shakes her head. "No, let's leave it." She wraps Blackheart's reins around her hand and leads him away from the water.

Killian wants to ask about the ghosts that inhabit these spots, but he doesn't want to drudge up any painful memories for her. It's been a fine day and the rain has held off so far. She's been happy almost the whole day and he doesn't wish to spoil her mood. Emma looks up at him now - he's surreptitiously watching her over the saddle he's readjusting - and she smiles in a way he thinks is content. "This is nice," she says.

Killian returns the grin. "It has been, hasn't it?"

She ducks down and checks Blackheart's hooves for stones. "I don't know what I expected, but this is way better."

He scoffs. "Oh, thanks."

"I meant it nicely!"

He hauls himself back up into the saddle, and after a moment she follows suit. "You really know how to cut a man twelve ways from Sunday, Swan."

She smirks, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. "I try."

She kicks Blackheart into a trot, posting again, and he has to remind himself to keep his eyes above her waist as he follows her through the woods. Killian Jones is no saint, though - his eyes do wander lower as they take the meandering path back to the farm. Watching her hips roll with the trot is mesmerising and he's rediscovering that riding with an erection isn't the craic it could be.

Emma glances back at him after a few minutes and she's still smirking - and it's then that he realizes she's doing it on purpose.

_Minx_.

The rain begins the moment they exit the woods - not in a drizzle but in a downpour, as if the angels above all decided to empty their bathwater at once. Emma shrieks as they're immediately drenched and Killian starts to laugh even as his teeth clack together, because even though it's June it's still _spring_ and this is _Maine_ and it's _cold_.

He fears for their lives as they cross the fields at a canter, hoping there are no gopher holes or patches for fragile horse legs to get caught in. But they make it back in one piece - half frozen but whole - and immediately set to task of caring for the horses. They leave the tack out to dry - here's Will's punishment, caring for the wet leather, a task that Killian gleefully calls down the row to the extra equipment room where he knows Will and the other stable hands are working (Will's indignant "_Oi_! Bloody hell!" is satisfaction enough) - and rub down Bluff and Blackheart as best they can.

Killian's fingers are numb as he grooms out the worst of Bluff's tangles. A proper grooming can come later that night, after feeding, but he's drier now and that's the important part. Emma appears to have reached the same conclusion, as she's coming out of Blackheart's stall, shivering and rubbing her hands together. "I should go," she says, her teeth chattering.

He glances outside and the rain's coming down hard. He can't even see the house. "Not in this," he insists. "You'll be in a ditch and I'll feel responsible. Come up to the house, have a cuppa, and wait for it to slow."

"I'll get everything wet," Emma says, looking down at herself.

Killian raised an eyebrow. "And I won't? Don't be thick. Come on, Swan."

He grabs her hand as they race up to the house, pulling her along after him. They're both shivering as they enter the house through the back way and shed wet, muddy boots, and Killian goes off in search of towels. He returns to see her hugging herself tight, looking around the kitchen curiously. "Here," he says, draping one around her and taking the other to his hair.

She nods her thanks. One of the cats yowls at him for attention and he looks for the source. Am lingers in the doorway, looking at him like he's gone mad for getting so wet. "I don't think you want to come near me, _a chroí_."

Emma's squeezing the water from her ponytail. "You have a cat?" she asks.

"Two, actually. Pesky things," he adds affectionately.

She nods, a curious look on her face. "Didn't picture you as a cat person."

God, he hates the way wet clothes cling to him. He shrugs out of his working shirt with some difficulty - though what good it does, he's not sure, because even his t-shirt underneath is soaked. He tosses it through the doorway that leads to the laundry, missing the way Emma's paused in drying her hair. "Funny thing about barns, they've loads of cats," he explains, draping his towel over his shoulders. "Mouse catchers, see, for the grain. It's the same everywhere, and it's a familiar sight. Comforting. They tend to grow on a man after a while, and my troublemakers are my only company sometimes. They're my home when I've got none otherwise."

It's the cold and the damp making him poetic, but Emma's looking at him like he's flipped on a lightswitch. Then she shivers violently. "_Shit_." She wraps herself up but it doesn't help stop her shakes. "This is stupid, but do you… fuck. Can I borrow something to wear? I really can't afford to get sick right now," she says.

"Tell you what, darling, upstairs there's a shower. Warm yourself, I'll leave you something outside the door."

She side-eyes him and even he sees this whole situation as something ripped from a trashy romance novel. "No funny business?"

He holds up his hand. "Strike me down if I lie."

It takes her another five seconds before she's bolting for the stairs. The cold really _is_ getting to him that he's not making any allusions to anything, but he doesn't have time to think about that. He pilfers through his laundry - thank God he thought to actually complete that chore the other day - for a shirt and suitable trousers for her. Killian hopes she doesn't read too much into it that they're his pyjamas. He leaves them outside the door of the guest bathroom, then heads into his own room and the master bath.

He keeps it brief, hot enough to melt the chill from settling into his bones. He scrubs a bit at the mud under his fingernails, but he knows he'll be down at the stables later again that night and a full shower is pointless.

When he turns the water off, he doesn't hear the other shower running. He mutters to himself to keep away the vision of Emma drenching herself in his shower, standing naked in his bathroom - _fuck_, she was going to put on _his_ _clothes_.

This was all a terrible idea.

He gets dressed (as much as he'd like to wear lounging clothes as well, he has work to do in the evening and it's significantly harder to hide his arousal in anything but proper trousers) and goes back downstairs. Emma's coming out of the laundry room as he enters the kitchen and she jumps. "_God_, you scared me!" she exclaims. "Geez, get one of those bell collars or something."

He grins, ignoring the racing of his heart as he took in the vision of his oversized clothes on her. "You're thinking of Si and Am, love, and I can assure you they're quite well-trained in the art of stealth."

"Whatever," Emma grumbles, finger-combing her wet hair. "I threw my stuff in the dryer, if that's okay. Hopefully by the time they're done it'll have stopped raining."

"We'll see. I believe, in the meantime, I offered a cup of tea," he says, and goes to fill the kettle.

She sits at the table, watching him putter about the familiar pattern of tea making. It doesn't take long and he definitely doesn't need to be watching for the kettle to boil, but it's a distraction from looking at her in his shirt and his pyjama bottoms at his table and thinking about how he could possibly get used to seeing her like that every day for the rest of his life.

Emma smiles gratefully when he presents her with a mug. Killian tries not to wince much as she does ghastly things like add too much honey, milk, and a bit of sugar to her tea - something she sees and promptly makes a face at him about. "I need to do _something_ to make this taste good," she teases.

"Barbarian Yank," he retorts, and drinks his tea - _black_, thank you very much.

They're quiet, the rain beating on the house and the hum of the dryer and the sounds of tea being drunk providing a pleasant background noise. She's staring out the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass, masking the farm beyond. He's watching the way she cradles her mug with both hands like she's afraid it'll be taken from her at any moment, or perhaps she's just soaking in the warmth still.

He could definitely get used to seeing her like this every day.

Shit.

"Emma," Killian says quietly, setting his mug down.

She looks over at him, tearing her gaze away from the window. Her hair's still damp and he needs to say something else - _do _something else - before he decides to do something stupid like buy a damn hair dryer to keep in the house for her, because she's _not _going to be staying here or showering here anymore or anything of the sort. Maybe she was right, maybe they needed to get something out of their systems, and then maybe afterwards this - this _domesticity_ he was feeling would _bugger the hell off_. "Emma, I'm going to kiss you now," he says, getting to his feet.

She's looking up at him with wide, curious - hopeful? - eyes. "Are you?"

He's standing over her now. "If you'll permit it."

If she says no, he'll walk away. He won't like it, but he will, and he'll drown himself in a barrel of whisky to get her out of his brain. She tilts her head, considering. "What happened to no funny business?"

"I'm not laughing, love."

She _has_ to be able to hear his heart thumping in his chest. After a long, long moment - days long, perhaps weeks - she stands up. "Okay," she whispers, lifting her head to meet his.

This kiss differs from their first in many ways.

He knows her. He knows her lips against his - this soft caress of skin, they have all the time in the world to exist here and now together - he knows the sigh she breathes as she fits her body against his, the upward curve of her lips as she feels his desire pressing into her stomach. He knows how her fingers feel in his hair, knows the curve of her hips under his hands.

But there's newness too, like when her hands slide down his body and grip his waist. When his hands wander up her back and feel nothing. He bites back a moan at the revelation that she isn't wearing a bra. He feels her smirking against him moments before she bites his lip and he opens for her. He knows the feel of her tongue, but he's not expecting the way her hands slide under his shirt, her fingers flexing and dancing across his skin and her nails tracing patterns that send gooseflesh rippling down his back. "Don't start something you don't intend to finish, Swan," he murmurs against her lips, chasing her for more.

"Please," she mumbles, nipping at him again. Emma glances up at him and through his haze he sees a wicked challenge in her eye. "You couldn't handle it."

Killian slides his hands back down her body, enjoying her little motions against him in response. He grips her hips tight and pulls her firmly against him. She breathes in sharply. "Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it," he challenges.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes searching his, her lips pink and parted slightly. Something like triumph lights in her eyes, the corners of her lips lifting for a beat, before she pulls them together again. Her mouth is hot and harsh and _wanting_, and _God_ - "Bedroom," he gasps after a moment, because his table isn't all that sturdy and he can't remember the last time he bothered to clean the floor.

Emma releases him. She takes his hand and practically drags him up the stairs, determination in her every step. In his bedroom, he kicks the door shut behind them and pulls her against him, her back flush against his front. He rolls his hips into her arse and she moans appreciatively at the feel of his erection pressing against her. She sighs as he sweeps her hair to the side, leaving searing kisses along the curve of her neck as his other hand slips under her (his) shirt. He wants _more_, needs _more_, this tease of skin isn't _enough_ -

She grips the ends of the shirt and steps away, pulling it over her head and leaving him breathless at the reveal of bare skin. "I wanted to do that," Killian manages to say as she glances at him over her shoulder.

_Seductress_.

"Shut up," she commands. She lays herself across his bed, his pants sitting indecently low on her hips. Her breasts are half-hidden by her hair, the peaks already at attention from the slight chill in the room.

He swallows hard and resists the urge to pin her to the bed and worship her chest until she's crying her release. "What if I have more things to say?"

"I can think of some better things you can do with your mouth," Emma says.

She actually crooks her finger at him. Killian pulls his own shirt off, pride swelling in his chest when he sees the appreciative look she's sweeping down his body. He climbs into bed, half-covering her body with his own, relishing at the skin contact. "Now, then. What other things would you have me do?" he murmurs.

* * *

><p>The rain still falls, but from the noise he can tell its started to let up. It's an afternoon made to be spent in bed with a beautiful woman. Emma is curled up against his side, his arm around her and he's idly playing with her hair. She's half-asleep by now, her fingers combing through the hair on his chest, one leg thrown over his. He glances down at her. She wears four orgasms well and should more often. "So, one-and-done, eh?"<p>

She smacks him on the chest, but it's a half-hearted effort and she's giggling. "Shut up."

"Aye, and I haven't heard that today in the least."

Emma shifts in his embrace, pressing herself more firmly against him. "You love it," she mumbles, sleep taking hold of her voice and body.

His stomach drops out as he realizes that perhaps he does.

_Fuck_.

* * *

><p><strong>I had a guest review asking why I named Leo what I did. Briefest explanation is that it's what I named him in 'The Corner of First and Amistad', where there was a scenario in which Snow and Charming wouldn't have named their son after Neal. Royal lineage and all. And I am someone who hates renaming the samesimilar characters every story, so I tend to stick with the same ones again and again. Saves me time on baby name sites and going through the long, arduous process of deciding 'would they name a child this? why?' for eight or nine hours. The good thing is that if you're familiar with my work, you already know what all the kids names will be. :)**


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